


Night Magic

by Kbrick



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Cheating, Closeted Character, Comfort Sex, Developing Friendships, Draco Malfoy & Harry Potter Friendship, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Ex Sex, Explicit Sexual Content, Falling In Love, Fluff and Humor, Fluff and Smut, Getting Back Together, Harry Potter Befriends Slytherins, Hermione Granger & Pansy Parkinson Friendship, Het and Slash, Hogwarts Eighth Year, Idiots in Love, Insomnia, Loneliness, Love Triangles, M/M, POV Draco Malfoy, POV Harry Potter, Post-War, Slow Build, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-20
Updated: 2021-03-16
Packaged: 2021-03-16 22:40:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 26
Words: 100,172
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29583183
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kbrick/pseuds/Kbrick
Summary: Eighth Year isn't what Draco or Harry expected. Harry's horribly lonely in the aftermath of his breakup with Ginny, Draco's stuck in a clandestine friends-with-benefits situation with a closeted Blaise, and neither one of them can ever get any bloody sleep. But when our favorite boys bond over their insomnia-related woes, things start looking up.A Hogwarts Eighth Year fic about finding hope in unlikely places, set to a 90’s playlist
Relationships: Dean Thomas/Ginny Weasley, Draco Malfoy/Blaise Zabini, Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter, Harry Potter/Ginny Weasley, Padma Patil/Blaise Zabini, Pansy Parkinson/Harry Potter, Seamus Finnigan/Dean Thomas
Comments: 287
Kudos: 324





	1. Eighth-Year Blues

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you're wondering about the name change, it's because somebody whose opinion I trust told me they hated the last one :)

I'm having trouble trying to sleep  
I'm counting sheep but running out  
As time ticks by  
And still I try  
No rest for crosstops in my mind  
  
On my own, here we go

**_Brain Stew_ / Green Day**

* * *

Blaise rolled onto his back and stared up at the bed’s purple curtains, grinning. His cheekbones looked even better than usual in the angled light of Draco’s wand. As always, his mouth was gorgeous, and soft, and full of empty platitudes. “Ugh, I needed that. It was incredible, by the way. You’re amazing,” he said.

“Mm,” said Draco. He was holding his breath, the way he always did when they were done. Five…four…three…two…

“Well. I’m _knackered_ ,” Blaise said.

Ding, ding, ding. There it was. Right on schedule.

Blaise began rummaging around the covers for his pants and pajama trousers and pulled them on hastily. “Night,” he said, giving Draco a quick peck on the cheek. And then he was gone, safe on his own side of the room once more.

“Night,” Draco said to the empty bed and sighed. He should have said something. One of these days he was going to say something, for the sake of his self-esteem, the sake of (what was left of) his pride. It wasn’t right that he, Draco Malfoy, was letting himself be used in this way. He was better than this.

Or at least he used to be. He wasn’t quite so sure anymore.

At the beginning of Draco’s bizarre eighth year at Hogwarts, he’d been emotionally bruised and battered and more vulnerable than he’d ever been in his entire life. He’d walked around those first few weeks feeling barely alive, like some sort of spectral visitor, separated from everything and everyone by an invisible curtain. Nothing felt real; it hadn’t felt like his life at all. There were nights that he sat there in his bed, wishing that Potter had gone ahead and murdered him in the bathroom, because at least then he wouldn’t have to be here now, feeling this way. Because everything was different; he and everyone he loved had _lost_ , and they were _ruined_ , and his father was _dead_ after only two short months in Azkaban (it had been an ‘accident’, ha fucking ha). The world no longer made any goddamned sense and he felt like he was drifting out to sea, anchorless.

There was that strange numbness, then, that feeling of being outside of real life, but there was also the fear. Draco was certain that he should not have been so scared all the time -- everything terrifying was dead and buried or imprisoned, all those goons and freakshows that had trailed around after the Dark Lord because they loved hurting people and got off on blood and pain and death. Yes, they had been really fucking scary. But they were gone. There was no longer any reason to be afraid. And yet he had been _,_ embarrassingly so.

His body, in those initial weeks, was always on high alert, poised for flight or fight, constantly watching for danger where there was none. Little noises scared the shit out of him and Merlin forbid someone touch him when he wasn’t expecting it. Pansy had come into his room and put a hand on his shoulder one day and he’d whirled around and literally punched her in the face before he realized who it was. That had been bad. That had been a really bad day. Draco had obviously healed her immediately, of course, and apologized a million times, but he didn’t think things between him and Pansy had been quite the same since. And he hated that.

So, when Blaise came creeping into Draco’s bed a few weeks into the school year, offering Draco his mouth and his cock and all the comfort that came with that, Draco accepted. And strangely enough, it helped. It eased something inside of Draco, somehow, allowed him to come back to himself to some degree, made him feel more _human_. He didn’t feel normal, exactly, and there were still some very anxious moments, but it was better, and Draco knew that his fucked up visits with Blaise were partly responsible.

He no longer walked around with that sense of heightened anxiety -- in the daytime hours, at least, when he could convince himself that he was safe in this strange, post-war world. Safe at Hogwarts, in its familiar corridors and sun-lit classrooms; safe in the Eighth-Year dorm room that he shared with Blaise and Weasley and Justin Finch-Fletchley, of all people. Talk about a motley crew.

Still, though, after the sun set, and everyone started falling asleep, things got a bit difficult. Because without the daylight, without the hum of students and the droning of professors, it was much harder to keep those awful memories at bay, much harder to remember that he was safe now, he was safe, they were all _safe_ …

It was because of Draco’s insomnia that Blaise had come into his bed in the first place. Draco always thought Blaise was fit, but then, _everybody_ thought Blaise was fit. However, Draco _also_ always thought Blaise was straight (but then, _everybody_ thought Blaise was straight). And not only did Draco assume Blaise was straight, but Blaise was also Draco’s friend, and Draco had precious few of those these days. So, long story short: Draco found Blaise attractive but would have never presumed to try anything.

But then one night during the second or third week of school, when Draco had been unable to sleep and was reading and doing everything in his power to distract himself from his creeping black thoughts, Blaise pulled the bed curtain aside. “Oh, good. I'd hoped you were awake,” he’d said, and then he climbed in.

“What are you doing?” Draco had asked.

“Couldn’t sleep,” said Blaise. “Want to fuck around?”

Draco, who had come out to all his friends fifth year, was still essentially a blushing virgin the night Blaise climbed into his bed. He and Pansy had fooled around in fifth year, a little. That was what convinced Draco he was gay, truth be told. Because as much as he liked being jerked off, he _definitely_ did not want to be touching Pansy’s tits or the slick place between her legs, as his rapidly-deflating cock made very clear once Pansy moved beyond giving Draco hasty hand jobs and began to expect a little something in return. The fact that he tended to wank to Quiddich magazine spreads that featured a bunch of shirtless blokes was also a convincing piece of evidence.

Anyway, Draco didn’t count that stuff with Pansy. And the only other even semi-sexual encounter Draco had was during the war, when Dolohov propositioned and grabbed at him in an upstairs corridor at the Manor. Thank Merlin, Dolohov had been caught out in time by Draco’s father, so that it never went beyond over-the-clothes groping. But Draco also didn’t count that, because it had been disgusting. And, also, scary.

So when Blaise, who was more than reasonably attractive, and who was packing the type of equipment that Draco preferred, suggested that they fuck around, Draco agreed enthusiastically.

And then by the end of that night, Draco had gotten and given oral sex for the first time. It was a revelation, and wonderful, and Draco wanted to do it all the time until he died. And it was so lovely, and so distracting, that sleep had come quick and easy afterwards. Draco felt some of the fog lift that next day, and more and more as the encounters went on.

Unfortunately, Draco also felt himself getting rather attached to Blaise.

And that was not a good thing, because while Blaise was clearly at least a tiny bit gay, he still wanted everyone to think he wasn’t. In fact, Blaise had begun officially dating Padma Patil in October. Surprisingly, this did not stop Blaise from coming into Draco’s bed on the nights he wasn’t with Padma, which made Draco feel both offended and relieved.

There had been about a two-month period (mid-September through mid-November) where Draco was convinced he was in love with Blaise, and felt very melancholic over the whole thing, and wrote embarrassing poems in his journal about it. Come to think of it, he ought to rip those pages out of his journal and burn them – they were _that_ bad.

Slowly, though, he began to think that maybe, while he loved the shagging and the closeness and the distraction, he didn’t actually _love_ Blaise. He liked Blaise well enough; Blaise was nothing if not likeable. But Blaise was not quite real, in a way that Draco found hard to pin down. Blaise forever said things and did things he didn’t mean, and if he actually had a true self, Draco was certain he, at least, had never met it. Draco supposed it was possible that there was a real boy somewhere in there under the congenial and pleasant veneer, but he thought it was just as possible that there wasn’t, that if you continued to peel away layer upon layer of Blaise Zabini, you’d end up with nothing at all in the end – just an empty, hollow core.

No, Draco no longer thought he loved Blaise, but he was still incredibly _fond_ of Blaise. Besides, Draco was a practical person who knew better than to kick a gift-horse in the mouth. And even though what Blaise was doing wasn’t quite on, Draco had come to depend on the company at night, on the distraction, and on the comfort that being skin-to-skin with another person brought. And if he confronted Blaise, the probable outcome was that there would be no more Blaise in his bed at night. And since that really wasn’t what Draco wanted, he stayed quiet. For now, anyway.

But Blaise’s magic hadn’t worked on him tonight; Draco was still wide awake. Maybe even more awake than he had been before Blaise had come into his bed. He sighed, pulling his pants back on. He could read. Or journal. He could…try to wank? He’d only just come, but he was a healthy, eighteen-year-old boy – such things were possible.

In the end, he tried all three. None of them worked, and slowly, through the split in his curtains, Draco saw that the sun was rising. He sighed and got out of bed. Time to face another day without any sleep whatsoever. Pre-war Draco, who moaned and carried on about getting anything less than eight hours, would be appalled. Post-war Draco thought this was just more of the same old shit, and planned to transfigure his morning tea into coffee. Espresso, maybe. And then he’d hopefully pass out tonight at eight p.m.

The day passed by in a surreal blur, and Draco was so tired he physically hurt. He fell asleep in Arithmancy, but thankfully Daphne poked him gently in the back with her wand and woke him.

Then finally, _finally_ , it was time for bed. Draco both looked forward to and dreaded this part of the day, but on days like this, when he’d had little to no sleep, he mostly couldn’t wait.

Blaise wouldn’t be visiting him tonight, since he’d just come in yesterday, but that was fine. Draco was tired enough that he didn’t want any nocturnal visitors. He fell asleep right away, at 9:30ish, thank Merlin.

He woke at 2:03.

Fucking hell.

He lay there for a few moments, futilely hoping that if he just stayed perfectly still, sleep would come back and claim him. When it didn’t, he sighed and whispered “Lumos” and picked up the book he was reading about the great wizarding castles of Britain. It felt like mid-day in his body, and he was reading easily, without any of the nodding off mid-sentence that sometimes happened.

Bloody bullshit, this. Stupid nighttime. Stupid sleep. Why did people even need sleep, anyway? It made no goddamned sense that your consciousness had to vacate the premises once every sun-cycle. Really, if you thought about it --

“Ron,” whispered a voice from outside the curtains. “Ron, you awake?”

Draco stilled. The voice belonged, unmistakably, to Harry Potter.

What the hell was he doing in here? And no, obviously Weasley was not awake – Weasley snored like a fucking walrus with a sinus infection, and the sound was echoing throughout the dorm room at this very moment.

“Ron?”

Draco stuck his head out of the curtains, scowling. “Potter, what the hell! It’s two o’clock in the morning, you git!” he hissed. Draco hadn’t been sleeping, but Potter didn’t know that. And Potter’s ‘whispers’ were going to wake up the whole bloody room.

Potter looked over at him in surprise for a moment before averting his gaze. “Oh. Er. Sorry, Malfoy.” Potter said. Draco stared at him suspiciously. Because he looked…like, maybe…upset? His face was all splotchy and strange.

“S’alright. What’s wrong with you?” asked Draco. He’d said it a much harsher tone than he’d meant, but that sort of just happened with Potter, even now, after the war, when Draco should’ve probably been groveling and kissing Potter’s sainted toes. He’d groveled for enough other, less important people, Merlin knew. Draco had apologized to Weasley and to Granger, and to Longbottom and Luna and Katie Bell and a whole host of others, but somehow, he never could bring himself to apologize to Potter.

He barely managed not to be an arsehole to Potter, most days. He didn’t know quite why Potter saving the world from that fucking maniac Voldemort wasn’t enough to soften Draco towards him, but it wasn’t. He supposed that part of it was that while Draco had sunk to the lowest possible rung of society, and everyone hated him and hated the name Malfoy, and that it was only the strict post-war rules of Hogwarts that prevented the other students from spitting on him and hexing him, Potter was fucking _worshipped_. It was nauseating. It was ten times worse than before the war, and it had been bad even then. Now, little first and second years would run up to Potter in packs and beg him to sign their textbooks. He’d seen a little girl burst into tears at the sight of Potter, wailing about how it was “such an honor” to be in the same room as him.

It made Draco want to vomit.

“Sorry,” Potter said again, still not looking at him. “I’m just – it’s nothing. I just needed to talk to Ron. But he’s, ah, asleep.”

“That’s because it’s two in the morning,” Draco pointed out.

“Right,” said Potter. “Yeah.” He turned and began to head back to the door, and Draco caught another look at his splotchy face.

“Have you been _crying_?” asked Draco.

“What? No! Of course not!” said Potter.

“You have so!” whispered Draco.

“Have not! Fuck off!” said Potter, which wasn’t quite as congenial as the usual bullshit he'd taken to throwing Draco's way this year (‘Hullo, Draco’, ‘Did you study for Potions yet, Draco?’, ‘You want a cauldron cake, Draco?’).

Draco got up out of bed and pulled on a pair of pajama trousers. “What are you doing?” asked Potter, sort of turning away at the sight of Draco in his pants, but sort of not, his eyes flickering down the length of Draco’s body. Hm, interesting. Draco wasn’t sure what that meant, exactly, but he filed it away in his head anyway.

“Well, you’ve woken me the fuck up,” Draco lied, “so I guess I’m going to find out why you’ve been crying like a little bitch.” Draco pulled on a t-shirt.

“I have not –” Potter hissed.

“Yeah, sure,” whispered Draco, grabbing Potter’s arm. “Come on.”

He dragged Potter out to the Eighth Year Common Room, which was hideously blanketed in purple (although, to be fair, once all the existing House colors were off the table, there wasn’t much left). Draco wondered what the hell he was doing even as he was doing it. Why was he planning to talk to Potter, of all people? He blamed it on the insomnia; he wasn’t thinking clearly. It had nothing to do with the strange twist he felt in his gut at the thought of Harry-Living-Legend-Potter crying over something.

“Sit,” he said, yanking Harry down onto the couch next to him. “Now talk.”

Potter regarded him solemnly. His eyes were bright and alert, even now, at this hour. Draco noticed that his eyelashes were very dark and immediately stopped looking at them. It was…unsettling, to be noticing Potter’s eyelashes.

“Why would I talk to you?” asked Potter.

Draco rolled his eyes. “You need to talk to _somebody_ , or you wouldn’t have been trying to wake Weasley up in the middle of the night.”

“It’s not – I wasn’t _crying_.”

“Potter, I don’t give a shit if you _were_.”

He took a deep breath. “I wouldn’t have gone to Ron, except…well, I used to always talk to Ginny, but –”

“She’s your girlfriend, isn’t she?” Draco couldn’t help but notice this year that the two of them – Potter and the Weaslette – were always cuddled up together. Very wholesome, very golden-couple-esque. And even if he hadn’t noticed, the Daily Prophet loved to speculate about them, because apparently baseless rumors that Harry Potter was engaged was what passed for news these days.

“Er,” said Potter. “Was. Was my girlfriend. We, ah. Well. We broke up.”

“Oh, Merlin. You’d better hope the Prophet doesn’t get wind of it.” Draco could just picture the headlines: ‘Golden Couple Splits!’, ‘The Boy Who Lived to Just to Have His Heart Broken’, and ‘Harry Potter, Newly Single, Causes Earthquake as Thousands of Witches’ Panties Drop in Unison’.

“We’re trying to keep it hushed up for that exact reason,” Harry said.

“And yet you’re telling _me_?” Draco said, feeling suddenly giddy. This was valuable information. Surely it could be put to good use, or, at the very least, spread amongst the Slytherins. Just the shock value alone would be worth it.

Potter shrugged. “I’m trusting you to keep it quiet.”

Draco frowned. That made no sense. Draco would _never_ presume that Potter would keep a secret on his behalf. So why the fuck was Potter presuming that Draco would? Was he mad? Had the war rotted his brain?

“I don’t think you’ll say anything, Malfoy. I don’t know why. I just think you won’t.”

And wasn’t that a pickle? Because now that Potter was saying this, now that he was so graciously bestowing this _trust_ upon Draco all of a sudden, Draco knew with a dreaded certainty that he _wouldn’t_ tell anyone, that this secret would go to the grave with him.

“Alright, well,” said Draco, blinking rapidly in the face of this strange realization. “What would you have told the Weaslette, if you were still her boyfriend?”

“I, ah – well, I’m having a bad night. I have them sometimes, and I used to sleep with Gin when I did, you know, just to be with her. It was good to have someone close by, is all.”

Draco had the sudden urge to laugh in his face, because it was so uncomfortable, what he was saying. Not because it was strange, but because it was _relatable_ , because Draco felt the exact same way regarding Blaise. “So what, since you two broke up, you were going to snuggle with Weasley instead?”

Potter smiled. “No, you prat. I just wanted to talk to him.”

“Alright, so. Were you planning on talking to Weasley about anything in particular?”

Potter shrugged. “Not really. Ron’s not much for deep conversation, but he’s good about keeping me company until I calm the hell down.”

“Well. I’m no Weasel. Much fitter than he is, for starters. But I can try to keep you company,” said Draco, wondering what in Salazar's name was possessing him to do all this, to keep Potter’s breakup a secret and sit around the Common Room chattering with him, offering to keep him company. Maybe the war had rotted _his_ brain. Or maybe he actually had fallen asleep again, and this was all a dream. Nightmare. Whatever.

Potter smiled again, and Draco marveled that he’d made that happen twice, now. Potter had a disturbingly nice smile, sort of crooked and sweet. “You’re bragging about being more fit than _Ron_?”

“Not bragging. Just stating a fact. Like, you know, _chocolate frogs are delicious_ and _this room is too goddamned purple_. I’m a very facts-based sort of person, Potter.”

His smile got bigger. “I see. And modest.”

“Course,” said Draco. “It’s one of my favorite things about myself.”

“Did I really wake you up?” asked Potter suddenly. “I thought I was being quiet.”

Draco shrugged, and immediately cursed himself internally. Shrugging was for plebs who didn’t know how to comport themselves or form complete thoughts. Potter was a shrugger; maybe it was contagious. “Not really. I was already awake. My sleep’s all fucked up these days.”

Potter sighed. “Yeah, mine too. Thought it couldn’t get any worse than when Hermione and Ron and I were literally living in the forest last year, but somehow it’s managed to. I’m lucky if I get three or four hours. I can’t ever fall asleep, and then even if I do, I tend to wake up at, like, four in the morning, and I’m just...up, then.”

“That’s what happened to me tonight, except two instead of four. It’s the worst.” And it really was.

“What do you do? When you can’t sleep?”

“Read, sometimes. Journal. Try to get a shag in – that’s surprisingly helpful.”

Potter laughed. He _laughed_. Draco was fairly certain he’d never made Potter laugh before. Or smile, probably. But laughter seemed like a real achievement, somehow. “Really? And what lucky girl has the privilege of shagging a fit bloke such as yourself?” Potter asked.

“You forgot modest.”

“That’s right. Fit and modest.”

Draco nodded. “And smart and funny.”

“Right, of course. So who is it? Is it Pansy still?”

“I, ah. No, not Pansy. Tried that with Pansy fifth year and it didn’t really work. Because I’m not actually interested in girls, as it turns out.” Draco blinked. Why had he said that? He’d told his friends, but they were his _friends_. They weren’t Harry-Fucking-Potter.

He watched with dismay as Potter’s eyes got bigger and bigger. It was only fair, Draco told himself. Potter had told him a secret, so he told one back. It was transactional. And maybe it would make Potter open up more, and then Draco could learn some really juicy things about him.

“You’re _gay_?”

“Yes,” said Draco, refusing to curl up into himself the way he wanted to. Malfoys didn’t scrunch, as a rule. They sat up straight, even when they were being condemned to ten years in Azkaban. Even when they’d just outed themselves for no apparent reason to their worst enemy. _Ex_ -worst enemy; tomato, tomahto.

“I had no idea,” Potter said, and he looked like someone had just told him the moon was made of treacle tart. Like it was outlandish, and wacky, and a little bit exciting. “Wow. Who knows this?”

“All the Slytherins,” Draco said.

“That’s…I mean, good for you. Really. That’s great. They were all okay with it?”

“They’re my _friends_. Of course they were okay with it. _Merlin_ , Potter, wouldn’t your friends be okay with it?”

He blinked. Turned pink and then red. “But – I’m not gay.”

“I’m not saying you are, you git. I’m just saying that if you _were_ , they’d be fine with it, wouldn’t they?”

“Er, yeah. I s’pose.” His cheeks were still a slightly Gryffindorish shade.

Draco yawned. “I think I’m going to try to go to sleep now, maybe. How about you?”

“Yeah, I’m getting a bit tired, I think,” Potter said, yawning too.

Draco got up and stretched. “Well. Goodnight, then.”

Potter got up, too. “Um. Hey, er, Malfoy? Thanks. I mean, for talking.”

“Not a problem. Much better than lying there listening to you trying to wake up Weasel, which would’ve taken for-fucking-ever. You can’t imagine – or, you probably can, I guess – how many times that git hits the snooze on his alarm in the mornings.”

“Oh, I am well aware of Ron’s snooze habits,” Potter said. “One of the few good things about not rooming with him this year. Seriously, though. Thank you. It was – nice. Talking to you.”

Draco raised a brow at him. “Can’t say I ever expected you to admit that anything I did was _nice_.”

“You didn’t turn me in at the Manor. That was nice.”

Draco felt himself flush.

“Sorry,” said Potter. “Didn’t mean to bring that up.”

“Yeah. Don’t love talking about the war, really.”

“Me either. Sorry. I don’t know why I said that. I never thanked you for it, though. So.”

“You don’t have to _thank_ me. I ought to have thanked you, probably. I opted not to be directly responsible for your death, big fucking deal. You literally saved me from Fiendfyre.”

“I thought we weren’t going to talk about the war?” Potter said.

“Well, you brought it up.”

“Well, now we’ve got to talk about one more thing. Can’t end the night on that note.”

“Fine,” said Draco. “Why did you and the Weaslette break up?”

“Oh, like that’s more fun to talk about, _god_ ,” said Potter, rolling his eyes.

“It’s not related to the war,” Draco protested.

“We broke up because I’m a fucking mess and Ginny was – probably rightfully – sick of dealing with me.”

Draco blinked. “Well, shit, Potter. Don’t mince words or anything.”

“Yeah, well,” he said, looking embarrassed and a bit miserable. Suddenly Draco had an intense desire to make him smile and maybe even laugh again.

“You really ought to work on getting shagged. I’m telling you, Potter, it’s the best sleep medicine you could ever want. I’m sure there’s a million girls who’d be happy to provide a little stress relief to our Savior.”

“Don’t call me that,” said Potter, grinning a little. “Fuck’s sake. And I wouldn’t know where to start. Never really shagged anyone at all.”

Draco stared. “Not even the Weaslette?”

“Er, no. We never did.”

“Potter, for shame! This is obviously what’s wrong with you, not getting shagged after committing so many good deeds. The whole universe is unbalanced now, and we’ve got to fix it. Who do you fancy?”

He laughed, and Draco felt a hot surge of victory. “No one, really. I mean, I find some people fit, but there’s nobody…you know.”

“Alright, well…don’t you Gryffindors go around messing with each other for fun? Merlin knows in the dungeons, there was always plenty of strings-free shagging.”

“I mean, Ron and Hermione shag each other. Does that count?”

“No, god, they’re practically married. I mean messing around just because.”

“No. We definitely never did that.”

“You ought to hang out with us Slytherins some time, Potter. If you want to get see how the other side lives. You’d probably get a shag out of it.”

Potter was grinning. “You’re – you’re having me on. Arsehole.”

“Am not.”

“Fine. How about Friday night.”

Draco blinked. “You – you want to hang out with us on Friday?”

“Yeah. According to _you_ , it’s way cooler than hanging out with Gryffindors, so… “

“Well, why the hell not. Friday, then.”

“Friday,” said Potter, nodding. “I expect to be impressed.”

“I never said anything about impressing you. I merely pointed out that as a group, we’re a bit sluttier.”

“Well, I happen to find that impressive,” said Potter, and then it was Draco’s turn to laugh.

“You know,” said Draco. “When you’re having trouble sleeping, I don’t mind if you come get me. Don’t wake me up if I’m sleeping – Circe knows I need it. But if I’m up, which is most of the time, then, you know. I’m happy to talk.”

“Yeah, alright. Thanks. I guess I’ll see you tomorrow, then, Malfoy.”

“Right. ‘Night, Potter.”

Draco walked back to his room feeling sort of strangely warm. He didn’t want to examine the reasons for it; surely it wasn’t that he’d done something _nice_ for someone else. Merlin knew he didn’t usually get off on that altruistic shit. He wasn’t _Potter_ , for fuck’s sake.

But whatever it was, it took mere minutes after getting back in bed for him to fall into a deep, dreamless sleep, and he didn’t wake until right before breakfast.


	2. Oh, the Horror

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry deals with some new feelings.

There's things that you guess  
And things that you know  
There's boys you can trust  
And girls that you don't  
There's little things you hide  
And little things that you show  
Sometimes you think you're gonna get it  
But you don't and that's just the way it goes

**_I Want Your Sex_ / George Michael**

* * *

Harry woke up. He woke up, which meant he’d been sleeping. He smiled. Sleeping was good. Sleeping was grand. It would be a good day.

He’d even had a dream, which was nice. Didn’t get a lot of REM sleep these days, which sort of precluded him from having dreams. And the dream had been a good one, judging by the state of the bulge in his pants. It was still pretty early; Harry thought he probably had time for a little morning wank. He deserved it, according to Malfoy. Or, actually, he deserved a shag, but Merlin knew that probably wasn’t going to happen anytime soon, no matter what Malfoy said.

He grinned thinking about their conversation last night. It had been too weird, talking to Malfoy without any yelling or hexing. Surreal, almost. Harry certainly hadn’t been prepared for it, and Harry prided himself on being prepared for anything and everything. Constant vigilance, which was, honestly, a strange way to live your life now that the war was over. But old habits died hard.

His hand drifted down to his pants, sneaking beneath the cotton. He cast a quick, wandless Muffliato just in case. He was quiet, usually, but still.

Malfoy’d said that there were plenty of girls who’d like to shag Harry. He tried to picture one of these allegedly willing participants, but his brain kept supplying him with images of Ginny, which was no good. Somebody else, anybody else, _Merlin_ , come on, stupid brain!

Then, suddenly, he thought of Malfoy, stepping out of bed in only his pants. He’d been surprisingly fit, all lean muscle and long legs. And his eyes were something, too, weren’t they, such an unusual color, so striking in the pale angles of his face. His gaze was penetrating, almost unnerving. And the way he’d talked about sex, so casually, like it was no big deal, like he had sex sandwiches for breakfast and chased them with a blowjob or two. He sounded like he’d had a lot of sex, and that was kind of hot, wasn’t it? And, oh, shit, Malfoy was gay, wasn’t he? He’d _told_ Harry that last night, and that was so mad, wasn’t it, because how could Draco Malfoy be gay?

An image hit him like a ton of bricks, then, of Malfoy spread out on his purple-curtained bed, leanly muscled legs spread open, hand on his cock. Or maybe, no, maybe someone’s mouth on his cock. A bloke, since Malfoy was gay. Harry placed some nameless, generically attractive bloke there in the image, pictured wet, pink lips, and Malfoy’s wet, pink cock, and Malfoy’s unnerving gray eyes looking down at this person, heavy-lidded with lust. And then the eyes shifted, and he was looking straight at Harry.

“Unnngh,” moaned Harry, as he came into his hand.

Oh, no. Oh, no. Why had he done that?

Oh, bloody hell. He’d actually just done that. He’d wanked to a fantasy of Draco-Sodding-Malfoy.

Harry wondered if it were possible to be so embarrassed that you actually died.

He shamefacedly made his way to the showers. Everyone would know, probably. They’d know that he’d just wanked thinking of Malfoy, and they’d judge him, and look at him in disgust, and all their (ridiculous) assumptions about Harry being so good and so upstanding would immediately dissolve and they’d see Harry for who he really was, which was, apparently, a deviant. A deviant who got off thinking of Draco Malfoy getting sucked off by another bloke while Harry watched.

He yanked open the door to the showers and of course, of _course_ ran into Malfoy, towel wrapped around his waist and nothing else, pale skin still glistening from the steam, hair still wet. He smelled really good, Harry couldn't help but notice. He didn't want to notice, but it was positively wafting off of Malfoy's body, this good, clean smell. It was almost minty-ish. “Morning, Potter,” Malfoy said, nodding. “How’d you sleep?”

Harry, who would very much like a chasm that led to the fiery core of the earth to open under his feet, felt his face get hot. “Er, fine, thanks. You?”

“Well,” said Malfoy, grinning. Harry wondered, fretfully, whether the grin was patronizing, and if it was, whether that was that because Malfoy somehow _knew_ that Harry had wanked to him. Oh, god, he had wanked to him.

“Really well, actually. Feel like a new man today. We ought to do that more often.”

Harry laughed. Giggled, more like, high-pitched and insane. “Yeah, sounds good,” he said, trying to smile like a normal person, which he was not, so it was difficult.

Draco shot him a strange look and headed down the hall, and Harry watched as the pale, tapered back disappeared into a dorm room. “You _idiot_ ,” he whispered.

“Mate, you talking to yourself again?” came a voice from behind Harry. Seamus.

“Hah, yeah. S’pose I am.” He needed to go to the shower where nobody could see him. He was not fit for society.

He went down to breakfast a little while later, resolutely not noticing how Malfoy’s hair gleamed in the morning sunlight, or how elegantly he held himself. Malfoy did not hold himself elegantly, why would Harry even think that? He held himself like a _git_ , because he was a _git_.

“Harry?” asked Hermione, and Harry realized she’d been saying something to him.

“Er, yes?” said Harry.

She frowned. “You weren’t listening, were you?”

“Um, no.”

A patient, long-suffering sigh. “I was saying I actually like Pansy’s idea about inter-house bonding. It’s what we’re supposed to be doing this year, but we really haven’t done it, have we? We’re all still spending all our time with our old housemates to the exclusion of everyone else.”

Harry made a face. “Pansy? You mean Parkinson?” Horrible, black-widow-spider-personified Parkinson?

“Yes, Harry. She approached me last night to talk about it. She was actually very nice.”

That seemed probably not true. Probably impossible. “She was?”

“She was. She said we need to start hosting inter-house get-togethers with all the Eighth Years. Play ice breaker games, that sort of thing. Get to know each other.”

“I talked to Malfoy last night,” Harry said suddenly.

Hermione frowned and Ron nearly choked on his toast. “You _what_?” they both asked in unison.

“Er, yeah. I came to talk to you, actually, Ron. Was having one of those bad nights.”

“Oh, sorry,” said Ron, looking apologetic. “That’s rough.”

Harry nodded. “But Malfoy was awake, I guess. He says he’s been having trouble sleeping, too, so he took me out to the Common Room and we just…talked. Had a proper conversation.”

Ron’s eyebrows shot up, dangerously high on his face, like they might leap right off his head and into his tea. “Weird, Harry. That’s weird.”

“I think it’s wonderful,” said Hermione, nodding. “It’s what we need. If we’re going to move beyond the war, we need to make peace with each other. It’s the best way to go forward.”

“He was fun to talk to, actually,” said Harry, wondering why he was still speaking. Nothing good could come of this. “He’s rather funny. Talked a lot about sex.”

Now Ron actually did choke on his toast, and Hermione had to slap him on the back to get it to dislodge. She turned back to Harry when she was done, and, with a very prim expression on her face, asked, “What do you mean, he talked about sex?”

“Just, like, said some funny things about it. Like, teasing me.”

“He was _teasing you about sex_?” cried Ron, pushing his toast aside, which was probably for the best since he seemed to be doing more inhaling of it than actual eating.

“Oh, Merlin, no, not like that,” said Harry, feeling hot. He needed to stop talking about this, but words just kept vomiting out of his mouth. “No, he was saying I need to shag someone to help me sleep. Said a lot of girls would probably like to shag me.”

Ron nodded. “Oh, yeah, well. They probably would. You did save the world and all that.” He was still a bit angry with Ginny for breaking up with Harry and had been encouraging Harry to snog someone else to make Ginny jealous.

“Need I remind you two that girls are _people_ with _feelings_ , not just something to shag?” asked Hermione, looking properly annoyed.

“Oh, no, ‘Mione. They’re definitely people. But even if you love and respect them more than anyone else you know, you can still want to shag them,” said Ron, kissing her on the cheek.

Hermione sighed. Harry pretended to gag.

“Still can’t believe Malfoy’s talking to you about sex,” said Ron. “Bloody weird, that.”

“You and Draco should help me and Pansy plan the first event!” said Hermione. “That way it won’t just be the girls who go, which was something we were worried about. The boys will go if you and Malfoy are involved.”

“Uh, yeah, sure,” said Harry. He wasn’t agreeing to this because it would mean spending time with Malfoy. No, siree. He was an advocate for inter-house unity, was all. Very important to the future of the wizarding world, wasn’t it, just like Hermione had said.

“Oh, wonderful, Harry!” said Hermione. “I’m so proud of you, truly.”

Harry gave her a weak smile.

That evening, Ginny was in the Eighth-Year Common Room, sitting next to Dean. They weren’t touching or sitting weirdly close or anything like that. Ginny would never rub anything in Harry’s face that way; she was too kind. But Harry knew, somehow, that something was going on there. They’d dated before, after all. And even someone as clueless as Harry could sense these things sometimes.

“Hey Gin, hey Dean,” he said as he passed.

“Hi, Harry,” said Dean, and Ginny gave a little smile and a wave.

Harry went straight to his room, climbed into bed, and closed the curtains.

The world was really a shit place when you thought about it. People always seemed to slip right out of your grasp. Even when they didn’t die on you, they might leave you, dump you. And then even though they were still technically there, you had to mourn the loss of them just the same, because they left a hole in your life in the shape of themselves. You might see them still, sure, but they were no longer your person. You no longer had any right to them, to their time, to their smiles, to their hugs. It felt so much like death, suddenly, that Harry almost couldn’t breathe. 

On Thursday night, Hermione found him in the Common Room talking to Seamus and Ron, and yanked him up by the hand. “Time for a strategy meeting,” she said. “Come on.”

Unlike all the House dormitories, the Eighth-Year girls’ rooms were not inaccessible to boys. Harry wondered about that, because he knew McGonagall had re-set all the wards after the war, and had probably set wards up in the Eighth-Year rooms, too.

Harry shuddered. He didn’t want McGonagall knowing about sex, or thinking that Harry or any of his friends ever had it. He didn’t want to consider why she hadn’t set those particular wards here. No, he did not.

So Hermione was dragging him towards her room, and Harry remembered too late what she was referencing, and suddenly, she was pulling him inside and there was Pansy Parkinson, sprawled out on the floor in a pair of very short pajama shorts, and Malfoy, lounging against Hermione’s bed. “Hey, there, Roomie,” said Pansy, smiling at Hermione. “Glad you could make it.”

 _Roomie_? thought Harry. Merlin, he shared a room with Michael Corner but he certainly wasn’t walking around calling him _Roomie_.

“Of course,” said Hermione, returning the smile. “I’m excited to do this.”

“I know,” said Pansy, re-adjusting herself so that her button-up pajama shirt revealed the top of her pale breasts as she leaned forward. “Me too.” She turned to Harry, smirking as though she could read his thoughts. “Harry Potter, to what do we owe this honor?”

“Hermione asked me to come?” he said, scratching at his neck.

“That’s why I asked you to bring Draco, too,” said Hermione. “I thought between the two of them, Draco and Harry ought to be able to get nearly all the eighth-year boys on board.”

“Harry’s quite popular; he could probably go it alone,” said Malfoy, grinning sardonically. Harry had never thought the word sardonically before, and he wasn’t certain whether his thoughts were using it correctly, but he thought that they were. And even if they weren’t, the word seemed to fit Malfoy anyway. “Not sure why I’m here. Pansy’s going to bully all the Slytherins into coming anyway.”

“You’re here because you’re the best at planning parties,” said Pansy, nudging him with her shoulder. Harry thought about the fact that she and Malfoy had dated. He wondered what that had entailed, and then hated himself for wondering. “And because you lend a certain animal magnetism to the whole affair that’s bound to get people interested.”

“Oh, right, of course,” said Malfoy, snorting.

They’d probably shagged, though. Malfoy seemed to imply that in the Slytherin dungeons, everybody shagged everybody. Harry suddenly had a ghostly vision of Pansy’s pale breasts against Malfoy’s pale chest and nearly had a stroke over it. “It’s hot in here, ‘Moine. Merlin. Open a window, why don’t you,” said Harry.

“It’s January, Harry,” said Hermione, furrowing her brow. “Take off your robes if you’re hot.”

“Oh, ah, yeah.” And that was all he needed, wasn’t it, to be disrobing in front of Pansy Parkinson’s breasts and Malfoy’s strikingly-gray eyes and…general fit-ness. He shucked them off and panicked for a moment. He was pretty certain that the t-shirt he was wearing wasn’t the one with the great big hole in the armpit. He looked down and breathed a sigh of relief. It wasn’t. Thank Circe.

Pansy raised an eyebrow at him. “Potter,” she said, and he felt himself cringing away from her in fear. “Never knew you had such developed pectorals.”

“Er…”

“You’re welcome,” Pansy said, smirking.

“Er, thanks?” Harry said, too late.

Hermione looked back and forth at them, annoyed. “Alright, let’s get down to business. We’re going to have this little event on either Friday or Saturday at eight in the evening. Which day would be better, do you think?”

“Saturday, definitely,” said Pansy, rubbing absently at Malfoy’s back. Touching, so much touching. He never knew Pansy was such a toucher. “Potter’s got a date with the Slytherins on Friday, so we can’t do it then. We’ve already got something planned for him.” She smiled wickedly.

Harry felt his mouth go very dry very fast. Of course he remembered that he and Malfoy had sort of agreed to do something on Friday, but he thought, afterward, that it was one of those things you said that you were never actually going to do. But now Malfoy was also smirking at him, and he thought that Slytherins smirked a lot more than normal people, and maybe that was how the hat sorted them. “Oh, right, yeah,” he said.

“Oh, really?” asked Hermione. “You didn’t say, Harry.”

“I sort of forgot,” Harry said.

“Oh, Potter, you wound me,” said Malfoy, still smirking. “How could you forget our little date?”

“I didn’t – I mean, I did – I mean…I’ll come. On Friday. I’m planning to be there.”

“Good,” said Pansy, pulling a pillow off of her bed and settling it onto Draco’s lap. She proceeded to lay down on her side, head in his lap, and the difference between hip and waist suddenly seemed very pronounced. Harry gulped. Malfoy began petting her hair.

Merlin, so much _touching_.

By the end of the night, they had a rough plan for their Saturday get-together. And Harry had enough material to last him through a lifetime’s worth of wanking. But when he got back to his bed, that thing happened that so often did. His normal, daytime thoughts were pushed aside for the irrational, anxious nighttime thoughts, and any chance of wanking disappeared like smoke. Harry tried to think of happy things, nice things, like flying and Hermione and Ron and the party on Saturday, which seemed like it would be a lot of fun, really, but instead, he kept thinking about green fire, and the over-exposed version of Kings Cross Station that he’d walked with Dumbledore. When he’d been dead.

Because he’d been dead.

Because he was a fucking freak of nature, and probably shouldn’t be here at all.

Malfoy had told him that he could come talk to him at night, when he couldn’t sleep. But he hadn’t really meant it, had he? No, of course not. Draco Malfoy did not want to be responsible for Harry in the middle of the night when Harry couldn’t sleep. He’d said that to be nice. Which was a whole other thing, one that Harry didn't want to look at too closely at the moment. 

Harry sighed and picked up a Quiddich magazine. It was going to be a long night.


	3. Truth or Dare, Part I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Draco helps Harry, then a Slytherin (+ Harry) game of Truth or Dare gets naughty

Heaven help me for the way I am  
Save me from these evil deeds before I get them done  
I know tomorrow brings the consequence at hand  
But I keep livin' this day  
Like the next will never come

**_Criminal_ / Fiona Apple**

* * *

“Morning, Draco,” said Blaise, winking as he tied his tie. Last night Blaise had been in his bed, and it had been exceptionally good, at least in Draco’s mind. Judging by the smile on Blaise’s face, and the way he eyed Draco’s bare chest, he thought so, too. Times like this, when Blaise flirted with him and smiled at him, Draco could almost remember why he’d thought he was in love with the prat. Blaise was infinitely charming. And he looked very handsome in his fine white button-up, with his lavender Eighth-Year tie loose around the collar.

“Good morning,” said Draco, not winking. He didn’t think he could pull off a wink. Certainly not as well as Blaise did. “Are you still coming to the little to-do tonight in the library? We’re introducing Potter to our devious ways, if you recall.” The eighth years had their own little study space (nothing much, just a room full of tables and chairs, lined with books) off the Common Room that they all referred to as the library, because that sounded better than ‘room with tables and chairs’. It wasn’t big, but it was private.

Blaise laughed. He had a very deep, compelling laugh. “The way you’ve sold this thing, mate, Potter’s probably expecting a literal orgy.”

Draco thought that was possibly true. He enjoyed making Potter blush. “Wouldn’t be that far off, knowing us,” he said.

“Too right. And yes, I’m coming. I wouldn’t miss it,” said Blaise. “Told Padma about it, too. She’ll be there as well.”

Draco bristled. Only because this was supposed to be Slytherins and Potter, not a great big party. It had nothing to do with not wanting to see Blaise cuddled up with Padma. Nothing at all. “Oh, wonderful.”

Blaise shot him a look. “Tone, Draco.”

Draco rolled his eyes and made for the shower.

In Alchemy, his only Friday class, Draco scratched a note onto a piece of parchment: _Tonight, library, 9 p.m._ He tapped it with his wand and it folded itself into one of his signature cranes, and then, when Professor Karungi turned her back, Draco sent it flying over to Potter’s desk. He watched, curious, as Potter opened it. Potter didn’t glance up, but turned the parchment over, scribbling. He folded it up into a small square and sent it flying back, and only then lifted his green eyes to Draco’s and gave a small smile. He looked tired, despite the brightness of his eyes.

 _I’ll be there. Should I be afraid?_ he’d written.

Draco found himself grinning. He took out a new piece of parchment. _Probably. By the way, you look like shit, Potter. Maybe you should take a nap first, so you don’t pass out on us._ Draco flew his crane back over to Potter’s desk. Potter read it and wrote a reply. A moment later, it was landing on Draco’s desk.

_Rough night. Ron, Seamus, Dean and I always play Exploding Snap right after classes on Fridays in my room. So probably not going to be able to nap in there, unfortunately._

Draco chuckled and began to write. _Exploding Snap? What are you, twelve? If you need a quiet place to sleep, you’re welcome to my bed. I might be in my room, studying, but I’d leave you alone._ Draco sent it off and then wondered, as he so often did when it came to his strange, newfound friendship with Potter, why he was doing it. Something about Potter made him want to extend himself, and he wasn’t entirely sure why. He usually wasn’t the extending sort.

This time, when Potter got the note, his head snapped up after he read it, his eyes finding their way immediately to Draco’s. He gazed intensely at him for a moment, and then turned back down to the note, scribbling, and sent the note back.

_I’d appreciate that. I’m really tired. Was thinking about trying to nap in the library (the regular one), to be honest._

Draco shook his head and wrote back: _Don’t nap in the library, you git. Come with me after class._

That was how, fifteen minutes later, Draco found himself climbing the stairs to the Eighth-Year tower with Potter in tow. “None?” Draco was saying. “Thought I told you to come get me if you couldn’t sleep.”

Potter shrugged. “Didn’t know if you’d be up.”

“Actually, I wasn’t last night. Finally crashed. But you still could’ve checked.”

“Alright, alright. Next time I will,” Potter said. “And then you’ll probably be cursing me because you’ll be sleeping and I’ll accidentally wake you somehow.”

Draco laughed. “Why is that not difficult to imagine.”

They came to Draco’s room, which was currently empty. He had no idea where Justin Finch-Fletchley was, but he was almost never around. Blaise was with Padma, he knew. And Weasley was in Potter and Finnigan’s room. “Who’re your other roommates?” asked Draco.

“Ernie and Michael,” said Harry. “They’re fine. Nice, I guess. Michael’s a bit quiet.”

“Yeah, he seems it,” said Draco. He didn’t mention that he’d always found Corner to be fit, in a broody, depressive sort of way.

“What about Justin? What do you think of him?” Harry asked, gesturing to Justin’s bed.

“Dunno. He’s never, ever here,” said Draco.

“He’s with Hannah, probably. They’re a thing this year.”

“Really?” asked Draco, who hadn’t been keeping up with the latest Hufflepuff goss, because ew. “Thought she was with Macmillan.” He had been vaguely aware that Ernie Macmillan and Hannah Abbot were dating for a long time prior to the war.

“She was. Bit of drama amongst the Hufflepuffs this year. Ernie’s barely speaking to the other two.”

Draco laughed. “It amazes me how so many things go on while I walk around totally unaware of them. That’s the world for you, though, eh? And probably Macmillan and Abbot and Finch-Fletchley could not give a shit about my problems either.”

“Well, that’s just because you don’t know each other very well, isn’t it? If you _knew_ them, you’d care about their problems. It’s like you and me. I had no idea you were having trouble sleeping before we talked the other night. Now I know, so I’ve thought about it, you know, since. Worried for you a bit. It’s just natural to care when you get to know someone.”

Draco stared at him. The things that went on in Potter’s head were a total mystery to him, despite the fact that Potter seemed incapable of _not_ blurting them out immediately. But even though he always seemed to voice his thoughts, no matter how strange or vulnerable they were, Draco still didn’t understand them. There was no way anyone was this unassuming and…well… _kind_. Maybe it was an act, all part of the Savior thing - although Potter didn’t seem like the calculating type. But maybe he was _so_ calculating, he’d figured out how to avoid coming off that way. It was possible, surely. “I highly doubt I’d find myself having concerned thoughts about Ernie Macmillan, even if I did know him.”

“Oh, you can’t possibly say that. You’ve had concerned thoughts about _me_ after all.”

Draco frowned. He had not.

“You have so,” said Potter, as though he could read Draco’s mind. “You wouldn’t be asking me about it and offering to help if you weren’t concerned.”

Draco rolled his eyes. Potter was such a git. Absolutely insufferable. “Maybe I lured you here because I’m planning to murder you in your sleep, Potty. You don’t know.”

Potter snorted. “Sure, Malfoy. Sure you are.”

“Go to bed, you prat,” said Draco, feeling that strangely warm feeling again. He wasn’t sure whether he liked it or not; he only knew it was a little uncomfortable.

Potter pulled off his robes, revealing a pair of faded jeans and a wrinkly button-up. He pulled his tie loose and took the button-up off, but, unfortunately (no, not _unfortunately_! Draco had no particular desire to see Potter’s naked torso!) he had a white t-shirt on underneath. Pansy had been correct last night when she’d said that Potter’s pectorals were rather well-defined. And his arms, too, now Draco considered them.

Ugh, of course Potter was fit, secretly, underneath all his dreadful clothes. Draco frowned in irritation as he cast a couple of cleaning spells over his bedding. “There, nice and sanitized,” he said.

Potter raised an eyebrow. “Unnecessary. You strike me as someone who is always perfectly sanitized. Like you probably take an inordinate amount of showers.”

Draco did, of course, take more than the usual amount of showers. He liked feeling clean. “Not all of us have such dreadful hygienic standards, Potter.”

“I’ll have you know I showered this morning, too,” said Potter. “Smell,” he said, thrusting his insane mop of hair under Draco’s nose. Draco unwillingly inhaled, expecting to be grossed out, but instead, he was met with a delicious sort of coconut-y smell, and with the pleasant warmth of Potter’s skin, and with the sensation of being tickled to death by Potter’s deceptively silky locks.

Draco pushed him away. “What’s wrong with you?” he said, unable to stop himself from laughing. “You’re mad.”

“Mm,” said Potter. “Not exactly breaking news.” He flopped down onto Draco’s bed.

“Take your shoes off, Potter, _god_ ,” said Draco.

“Too tired,” Potter said, closing his eyes but also grinning like an arsehole.

“Fuck’s sake,” said Draco, approaching the bed and yanking Potter’s trainers off.

Potter was laughing again. “You going to rub my feet, Malfoy?”

“Ugh, no, I’d rather stick my head in a vat of acid.”

“You could sit with me, though, if you wanted,” said Potter, blinking his eyes back open. He yawned. “It’s relaxing, having you close by.”

Well, if that wasn’t the weirdest fucking thing ever. And weirder still, it made Draco feel sort of…good, to hear it. “Fine, you idiot. If it’ll shut you up.”

“It might,” said Potter, smiling winningly. “I bet I’d shut right up if you rubbed my feet.”

Merlin help him, he really shouldn’t be finding all Potter’s ridiculousness charming, but he was. It wasn’t charming in the same way Blaise’s smooth confidence was charming; not at all. Potter was awkward, and goofy, and never said what Draco expected him to say, but somehow, when you put it all together, it was oddly compelling. He suddenly understood why all Potter’s friends seemed so devoted to him.

He grabbed his Alchemy textbook and sat on the end of the bed, near Potter’s socked feet. He glared, and then reached out a hand and set it atop one of them, kneading gently. “Now go the fuck to sleep,” he growled. “I want to read this before supper.”

Potter sighed happily, and not thirty seconds later, he was breathing deeply and evenly, and his eyelashes were impossibly dark against his cheeks. “Git,” Draco murmured, and then turned back to the chapter on the history of the Elixir of Life.

Potter slept through lunch and into the afternoon. Draco had some truffles from his mother tucked away, so he ate those and called it a meal. At around two, Weasley came in and stood in the doorway, frozen. “Is that Harry?” he asked.

“No, you’re hallucinating,” said Draco, not looking up from his Potions textbook. He was getting a lot of next week’s reading done today; he felt more productive than usual.

“Why’s Harry in your bed?” asked Weasley. His skin had taken on a slightly green-ish tone.

“He needed a place to nap. Said you arseholes would be in his room playing Exploding Snap, of all the bloody things.”

“Oh, er, yeah. We were. He could’ve slept in _my_ bed,” Weasley said, looking deeply uncomfortable.

“Did you offer it to him?” asked Draco.

“Well, no,” said Ron. “Shouldn’t need to offer, though. He knows he could.”

“Maybe he doesn't,” said Draco.

Weasley frowned, and set down his robes, which he’d had draped over his arm. “You supposed to wake him at any specific time?”

Draco shook his head. “Not that I know of.”

“I have to go to Hermione’s room,” said Weasley. He stayed where he was, eying Draco with suspicion.

“Weasel, I’ve been in here with him since this morning. If I was going to murder him, I’d have done it already.”

“Humph,” said Weasley. “Make sure to wake him soon or he’ll never go back to sleep tonight.”

“Yes, alright,” said Draco. He didn’t like Weasley bossing him around, but it was probably true.

At two-thirty, when Potter had been sleeping for over four hours, Draco woke him, pulling his toes a little and hissing, “Potter!”

Potter’s eyes fluttered open and he looked around before smiling and stretching luxuriously. Draco did not look at the taught muscles of Potter’s stomach when his t-shirt slid up. Nor did he look at the little dark trail of hair that led from his belly button to his waistband. No, he did not.

“How long was I asleep?” Potter asked. His eyes looked even brighter and bigger than usual without his glasses on.

“Little over four hours,” said Draco.

“Oh, good,” said Potter. “Not too much, not too little. Perfect.” He felt around for his glasses and put them on. “Have you been here the whole time?”

“Yes,” said Draco warily. “Why?”

“Nothing. Nice of you, is all. Thank you.”

“I was studying. I would’ve been here anyway.” Draco felt his cheeks heating up. He didn’t want to have done something nice for Potter. He certainly didn’t want to be _thanked_.

“Draco, you know it’s okay to be nice, right? It’s not a bloody crime.”

“I know that,” Draco snapped. He stood up. “I’ve got to go talk to Pansy.” He didn’t, but he didn’t want to stay in here with Potter and all his talk about being nice.

“Alright,” said Potter, frowning. “I’m leaving anyway.” He stood and put on his shoes and grabbed his robe and his button-up shirt. “I’ll see you in the library at nine, right?”

“Right,” said Draco.

He did end up going to Pansy’s room, because that was where Draco tended to go. Pansy was gone, though, and Draco found himself with Granger and, once again, Weasley. “I woke him up,” said Draco, lifting his chin slightly.

“Good,” said Weasley.

“Who?” asked Granger, puzzled. They were both sitting on her bed. Granger had a pile of textbooks out, and Weasley looked like he had nothing to do, and was probably just annoying her.

“Potter,” said Draco. “Took a nap in our room.”

“Oh,” she said, tilting her head. “That’s good. He was tired this morning.”

“Apparently,” said Draco. “Anyway, I was looking for Pansy. You know where she went?”

Hermione nodded. “Went to find Theo, I think.”

“Thanks,” said Draco, drifting back towards his room. Potter was gone, thank goodness, and Draco sat back down on his bed and pulled open his Applied Charms Theory textbook. The bed smelled slightly coconut-y. Draco didn’t cast a cleaning charm over it. It was a nice smell, really.

Draco was already in the library when Potter showed up. He looked nice, for Potter, wearing a less raggedy pair of jeans than he had been earlier, along with a black t-shirt. Draco cursed Pansy silently for pointing out Potter’s muscles. He’d never noticed them before, but now he couldn’t seem to _stop_ noticing them.

“Potter!” they all cried. All the Slytherins had arrived a little earlier, and were all a few gulps of firewhiskey in already. Pansy leapt up and pulled at Potter’s hand, forcing him to sit next to her on the sofa they’d transfigured one of the tables into. Draco laughed as he saw Potter eying Pansy like she might start biting at any moment.

“Hullo,” he said, looking around.

“Haven’t started the orgy part yet,” Blaise said, winking. “That comes next.” Padma was next to him on an armchair, also transfigured, her head on his shoulder. It was fine. Draco didn’t even care. He’d barely even noticed. Padma who?

Lies. He did care, and it was distinctly not fun, watching them snuggle.

Theo, Millie, Greg, and Daphne were also in attendance. Draco hadn’t seen much of Greg at all this year. They weren’t taking any of the same electives, but Draco knew there was more to it than that. Greg was having a rough go of it, but he never wanted to talk about anything. Draco thought that maybe Greg blamed him, for what happened to Vince. He wasn’t sure whether that was unfair or not. Maybe not. Draco blamed himself, too, a bit.

“We should play two truths and a lie,” said Millie, on Potter’s other side on the sofa, tipping her head back to take a swig of the firewhiskey before she passed it to Potter, who frowned at it for a moment. Then he seemed to come to a decision, and guzzled down a good gulp or two. Pansy patted him on the back and he smiled shyly at her before passing it her way.

“Boring,” said Theo, who was sprawled out on the floor. “We ought to play Three Man. Get properly sozzled.”

“Theo, you’re welcome to get just as sozzled as last time and pass out on Daphne’s lap again, though I don’t think we need to base our entire night around it. Three Man’s not very fun,” said Pansy definitively. “How about truth or dare?”

“Oh my gosh,” said Padma, grinning. “You guys like to play truth or dare? I _love_ truth or dare.”

Draco, who was in another armchair, had to bite his tongue to keep from making a snide remark about how truly ground-breaking that information was. Everybody loved truth or dare, for Merlin’s sake. It was the quickest way to get dirt on your friends.

“Okay, okay!” said Pansy. “I’ll start. Oh, and by the way, Harry and Padma, if you don’t answer a question, you have to take a swig from the bottle. A big swig, not a tiny little sip. If you refuse to do the dare, you have to take two big swigs. Got it?”

Harry and Padma nodded.

“Okay,” said Pansy, looking around. “Harry. Truth or dare.”

“Ah, dare,” said Harry. Draco feared for him. Pansy was ruthless.

“Oh, yay!” she cried. “I dare you to kiss me.”

Draco started laughing. Of course she would do that. “Pansy, you’re such a slag,” he said.

“You’re just jealous, darling,” Pansy said.

Potter was turning an unhealthy color. Draco thought maybe he’d stopped breathing.

But then he leaned over and gave Pansy a kiss, and Draco watched, fascinated, at how skillfully he seemed to do it -- gently, and with a little tongue but not too much, his hand coming up to rest along Pansy’s jawline, then trailing slightly down her neck. Pansy was still for a moment and then she wrapped her arms around Potter, pulling him closer, and really threw herself into it.

They pulled apart, breathless, and Potter laughed. Blaise whistled.

“Fucking hell, Potter. Wasn’t expecting _that_ ,” Pansy said, her eyes slightly dazed.

“You _do_ realize you can’t give someone the same dare twice, don’t you Pans?” Draco drawled.

“You _do_ realize there are plenty of other things I could dare him to do to me, don’t you Draco?” Pansy replied, grinning.

Potter looked at her wide-eyed for a moment before glancing around the room. “Alright, ah. Padma. Truth or dare.”

“Truth,” she said.

He looked thoughtful for a moment. “Okay, did you like Blaise before you two got together?”

She smiled. “I did. I’ve had a big crush on him since fourth year.”

Blaise smiled and put an arm around her. Draco found himself grinding his teeth and made himself stop. It was bad for the enamel. Thankfully, the firewhiskey had made its way back to him, so he took a big, healthy-sized swig.

“Um,” said Padma. “Daphne, truth or dare.”

“Dare,” said Daphne from her place on a loveseat next to Greg. Draco whistled for her because Daphne never did dares. She was being unusually brave. She smiled over at him.

“I dare you to flash your tits,” said Padma, grinning.

Daphne steeled herself. “Bra or no bra?”

“Bra’s fine,” said Padma.

Daphne made a face before lifting up her shirt for a few seconds, during which there were wolf-whistles and some clapping. She pulled it back down and looked a bit pinkish. “Okay, Millie. Your turn.”

“Truth,” said Millie, flicking her long hair over her shoulder.

“Who do you fancy?”

Millie took a deep breath. “Theo,” she said. Everyone erupted into cheers and giggles and Draco watched, amused, as Theo looked down at the floor, seeming pleased.

“Theo, truth or dare,” said Millie.

“Dare,” he said.

“Dare you to give me a snog.”

Pansy shrieked and fell onto the floor. “Yes, Millie, you vixen!” she cried. “You’re my new hero!”

Theo stood and walked over to Millie, then put his hands on either side of her head on the back of the sofa. Then he kissed her soundly, with lots of tongue, and everyone cheered again.

He returned to his place in the circle and Millie straightened herself, looking flustered, her hair all messed. She cleared her throat.

Theo, still grinning, glanced around the circle. “Draco, mate. You’re on the chopping block.”

“Dare,” he said. Draco always did dares. He’d much rather make an ass out of himself than tell anyone something he didn’t want to tell them.

Theo tilted his head and looked thoughtful. The firewhiskey reached him and he took a swig before passing it along. “Dare you to suck on Blaise’s finger.” Padma, sitting next to Blaise, giggled and nudged him. Blaise was sitting perfectly still, eyes on Draco.

“It’s not Blaise’s dare, Theo. He might not be comfortable with that.”

“Blaise?” asked Theo.

Blaise shrugged nonchalantly. “Far be it from me to deny someone the opportunity to suck on one of my appendages.”

None of them besides Pansy knew anything about Blaise and Draco, or so he thought. He looked at Theo, who was laughing, and didn’t look like he was up to anything particularly evil. No, he was pretty sure Theo didn’t know.

“Draco, darling, be sure to give it your all. I expect a show,” said Pansy, her eyes glittering.

Draco glared at her before it occurred to him that maybe that was exactly what he ought to do. It was Blaise, not him, who’d created this situation. Let Blaise squirm and be uncomfortable.

Suddenly feeling a thousand times more relaxed, Draco smirked at Blaise. Padma laughed and stood up from the chair. “He’s all yours, Draco,” she said, gesturing. Oh, if only she knew.

Draco stood and stalked slowly over to Blaise’s chair. Blaise was looking at him with fear in his eyes now, and Draco felt a rush of something heady sweep over him. It felt a lot like power. Blaise wanted him. He wanted him, and he was terrified that someone would realize it.

Draco sank to his knees, looking up at Blaise from under his lashes, and watched as Blaise’s hands tightened on the armrests of his chair. Draco leaned forward and put one of his hands on Blaise’s thigh, and used the other to take Blaise’s hand. Blaise had big hands, and Draco knew exactly what they felt like on his body.

He pressed the hand against his own cheek, closing his eyes and leaning into it, and then Blaise, who seemed hardly aware that he was doing it, moved his thumb so that it was pressed against Draco’s bottom lip. Draco opened his eyes and smiled wickedly against Blaise’s thumb, and then opened his mouth, letting it in. He swirled his tongue around it, and heard Blaise’s breath hitch.

Fucker, he thought. Blaise couldn’t fucking help himself, could he. Blaise thought he had total control over their dynamic, thought he called all the shots. But he didn’t. This was proof that he didn’t.

Draco pulled Blaise’s thumb out of his mouth, and moved over to Blaise’s pointer finger. He licked the tip of it, just a flicker of his tongue, and then took it into his mouth, deep and slow, never letting his eyes leave Blaise’s.

“Holy shit,” he heard Daphne say, which was something, because Daphne didn’t swear too often.

Draco let out a little moan when Blaise’s finger was all the way in and felt Blaise’s thighs twitch. He looked down and saw, much to his satisfaction, that Blaise was hard. He pulled back and swirled his tongue around before plunging back down. Blaise was leaning forward now, his eyes dark, and he appeared to have forgotten all about poor Padma.

Draco gave it one more good suck before sitting back on his heels and then standing and smiling out at the room. Everyone whistled and cheered again and Pansy was fanning herself. Draco gave a small bow.

He went to catch Pansy’s eyes, because she alone knew what he’d really been doing, what he’d been proving, but Pansy was still busy squealing and whispering furiously to Millie. Instead, he found himself meeting Potter’s gaze, and he froze.

Potter was looking at him with an expression that Draco had never, ever expected to see coming from him. Desire. Lust. Wanting. It was there, plain as day, written all over his face.

And then Potter blinked, and looked away, leaving Draco to wonder if he’d only imagined it.


	4. Truth or Dare, Part II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Truth or dare finishes on an interesting note, and then Harry realizes some things

Let's tell it how it is, and how it could be  
How it was, and of course, how it should be  
Those who think it's dirty, have a choice  
Pick up the needle, press pause, or turn the radio off  
Will that stop us, Pep? I doubt it

**_Let's Talk About Sex_ / Salt-N-Pepa**

* * *

Harry was having a lot of trouble thinking. He wasn’t sure if it was the fault of all the firewhiskey he’d had (probable), or Pansy’s cleavage (also probable) or the completely mad things that were taking place all around him (very probable). So far, he’d been dared to snog every single girl in the room, which was four, which was officially twice the number of girls he’d ever snogged in his life. Pansy’d also dared herself to give him a hickey, which everyone argued over (because were you allowed to dare yourself?) but eventually allowed because it was quite an impressive power move.

Everybody else had been snogging like crazy, too. He’d watched Daphne and Pansy kiss, which was one of the top five hottest things he’d ever seen in his life, although it didn’t hold a candle to whatever the hell Malfoy had done to Blaise’s finger.

But Harry wasn’t going to think about that. Because every time he thought about that, things started happening down in his pants, and he was pretty sure Pansy noticed, because she kept looking, and he was thinking that she might dare herself to stick her hand down in there if he didn’t get himself under control soon.

He would think about non-sexy things. He would think about…McGonagall. Filch. Splinters. Brussels sprouts. Cabbage. Spoiled milk. More Filch. Filch drinking spoiled milk.

There, that was better. Crisis averted.

He glanced over at Malfoy and accidentally caught his eye. Oh, god. He was pretty sure Malfoy knew what his little finger escapade had done to Harry, because soon after, Harry had been sitting there with his mouth hanging open, insanely turned on, and Malfoy had seen. He’d _seen_. It was very horrible, and mortifying, but thanks to the whiskey, Harry’s embarrassment seemed a little dulled, less incapacitating than usual. So, that was good, he supposed. He mentally awarded ten points to Slytherin for adding firewhiskey to the mix.

Harry took another gulp from the bottle as it passed.

“Potter, truth or dare?” asked Malfoy.

Harry sat up straight. “Um…” he was a little bit afraid of dares at this point. “Truth.”

“Have you ever kissed or done anything sexual with another bloke?” Malfoy was looking right at him, those gray eyes burning with intensity.

Harry startled. Oh, fuck. Ohfuckohfuckohfuck. He knew exactly why Malfoy was asking him this question. It was because he knew. He’d seen. “Nope, never,” Harry answered, feeling quite warm. That was true, though, because Malfoy hadn’t asked whether he’d _thought_ about it. “Pansy, truth or dare?”

“Truth, my darling Harry,” said Pansy, leaning towards him.

“Erm…” He was also proving to be pants at asking truths, because he felt bad making people uncomfortable. He needed to up his game. “How far did you go with Malfoy when you were dating?” Oops. Hadn’t meant to ask that. But, now that he had, he might as well listen to the answer, which interested him immensely.

Pansy started giggling. “Much farther than he would’ve liked. But, well, we limited ourselves to fingering and hand jobs and a little nipple play, in the end.”

Harry gulped. That was…quite an explicit answer.

“Back to you, Harry,” Pansy said, running one of her fingernails over Harry’s arm. “Truth or dare.”

He was good and scared now. He’d asked her a very personal question, and he was pretty sure she was ready to ask him one right back. He didn’t want to admit to this room full of sex gods and goddesses that he’d barely done anything with anyone. He and Gin had touched each other, but that was as far as it went, and they’d been together for months. “Dare.”

Pansy smiled, slow and dangerous. Uh-oh. “I dare you to kiss Draco.”

Harry’s brain short-circuited and his head was filled with a sort of white noise. This, perhaps, was what a panic attack felt like. Or a stroke. One of those.

He took a deep breath and looked at Malfoy, who was sitting in his armchair, posture perfectly relaxed and yet somehow still proper, grinning at Harry with a smile similar to the one he’d given Blaise before he’d done that _thing_ to Blaise’s finger.

Okay, Harry thought to himself. Okay. He could do this. He might not have kissed all that many people in his life, but those that he _had_ kissed all told him he was a very good kisser. Even Pansy, and she had no motive to lie. “Malfoy, stand up,” he found himself saying. Bending down to give someone a kiss while they were sitting and you were standing seemed not at all like an ideal angle.

Malfoy’s grin stretched wider and he stood, watching Harry expectantly. He thought Harry was going to chicken out or be shit at it, didn’t he? Well, Harry would prove him wrong. He would kiss that bastard so well that he’d never forget it.

Harry rose and stepped towards him, not stopping until he was standing very close. He’d never been this fucking close to Malfoy before, so close that he could see the darker ring of gray around the edge of Malfoy’s irises, and the little scar he had above one of his arched eyebrows. Harry’s heart was pounding in his chest, freight-train fast and freight-train loud.

He lifted his hands to Malfoy’s face, letting them slide over that sharp jaw, feeling a bit of stubble there, and then into his hair. His hair was soft and silky between Harry’s fingers. Harry smelled that minty smell, the thing he’d smelled when Malfoy had come out of the shower, along with something else, something bright and clean, like maybe citrus.

He looked down at Malfoy’s mouth, and his breath caught in his throat, and then he leaned forward. His lips met Malfoy’s and the world turned upside down.

Malfoy’s lips were so soft, and he tasted so good, and a warm feeling began vibrating all along Harry’s skin, electric and buzzy. He let his tongue push into Malfoy’s mouth, hesitant at first, and then bolder, and then, oh, Circe, Malfoy was _actually kissing him back_ , answering Harry’s growing insistence with his own.

He felt Malfoy’s hands skirting up his chest, and he pulled Malfoy closer, and then Malfoy’s arms went around Harry’s waist. He let himself use just the smallest bit of teeth, a delicate nip at Malfoy’s bottom lip, and Malfoy fucking whimpered. _Whimpered_. Harry pressed against him, taking his mouth without mercy, going positively mad with desire, wanting to fling him back onto the armchair, wanting to crawl all over him, rut against his thighs, lick his neck and his chest, tear at his clothes.

Suddenly, a loud, slow clap filled the room. Malfoy leapt back like he’d been burned.

“Well done, Harry and Draco. Well done. Inter-house unity at it’s finest,” boomed Blaise’s deep, amused voice. Everyone laughed, and Harry returned to the couch, feeling slightly unsteady.

Pansy was looking at him strangely, like he was a puzzle and she’d just fit a piece together with another one. Malfoy sank into his own armchair and grabbed the firewhiskey. “We’re low,” he said. “Shall I grab another bottle? I’ve got a couple in my room.”

“Yes, please!” cried Pansy. Millie and Daphne and Padma cheered. Malfoy rose.

“I’ll help you, mate,” said Blaise, kissing Padma on the cheek and following him out.

“Harry, dear,” whispered Pansy in his ear. “I never knew you swung that way.” Her face was very close, and Harry thought she might kiss him, just because.

“I didn’t know either,” said Harry, brutally honest thanks to his inability to ever shut the fuck up and also thanks to the firewhiskey.

“But you like girls, too?” Pansy asked.

“Yes. Definitely like girls,” he said.

“You want to come back with me to my room?” asked Pansy, her breath tickling his ear. “Since you definitely like girls?”

Oh, that sounded dangerous. And wonderful. And Harry was so confused, the whiskey making everything seem impossible to sort through. He thought of Malfoy’s eyes, of the dark ring of gray around the lighter one, of the little scar that he’d never noticed before. He thought of Malfoy’s hands on his chest, thought of the heat of Malfoy’s mouth.

Merlin, he was a fucking mess. He was so turned on he could hardly function.

But speaking of Malfoy, he and Zabini weren’t back yet. Harry wondered if they were talking about him, laughing about how obvious he’d been. It made him feel embarrassed. But Malfoy’d liked it, too, he could tell. Would Malfoy laugh about it when he’d liked it, too?

“I can’t go to your room,” he found himself saying. “Hermione’s your roommate.”

“Oh, Hermione isn’t aware that you have a penis?” asked Pansy.

“What? No, she’s aware that I –” Harry stopped and laughed. “It would be too weird.” God, he wasn’t really considering doing this, was he? Going off with Pansy Parkinson?

But Pansy wasn’t at all like Harry’d thought she’d be. She was still scary, but not in the way he expected. She hadn’t once tried to hex or poison him, for starters. It seemed like she probably didn’t want to murder him.

He’d never met a girl so forward, so blatant about what she wanted. Who wore her promiscuity like a badge of honor instead of treating it like a dirty secret. It was slightly terrifying but also thrilling. And more than a little sexy. And really, people shouldn’t be afraid of admitting they liked sex. It was stupid to pretend otherwise. Harry was very guilty of that, of pretending like he didn’t have feelings that were, now that he thought about it, perfectly natural.

Malfoy and Zabini were still gone. They were definitely laughing about the fact that Harry had essentially molested Malfoy. He decided he didn’t want to be here when they got back.

“You could come to my room,” Harry said, shocking himself.

Pansy smirked. She had a really pretty mouth with a dramatic bow, and it looked especially nice when she smirked. She also had a dimple in her left cheek. She grabbed his hand and hoisted him up off of the couch and pulled him towards the door. “Goodnight, all,” she said to the room. Nobody looked particularly surprised by what was happening, actually. Nott was sitting on the arm of the sofa next to Millie and she was leaning against his legs. Goyle had settled his head onto Daphne’s lap and had fallen asleep, and Daphne and Padma were deep in conversation.

Harry was only a little nervous as they walked back to his room. He opened the door for her and she walked through. Everyone appeared to be asleep and the room was quiet. “Which one’s yours?” she whispered. Harry pointed.

She pulled at him, heading towards it, and then let go of his hand so she could slip through the curtains of his bed. He climbed in after her and cast a Muffliato and a privacy charm and then looked at her.

“Er, Pansy…what is this all about? I just want to make sure I understand,” he said. Because Harry thought Pansy was really, really sexy, and he really, really wouldn’t mind doing this, but he also didn’t know that he wanted to date her or anything, and he wasn’t sure if that was okay. He wanted to be sure.

She giggled. “Merlin, Harry, I’m not in love with you, if that’s what you’re asking. I think you’re very cute, and you kiss divinely, and you’re someone new, which I’ve desperately needed. But that’s it. And I don’t, as a rule, date anyone. Haven’t since Draco.”

“How come?”

She sighed. “I grew up thinking Draco and I would be married one day. Our parents wanted it, and we were always close. Then we started dating, and I thought, well, this is it, and it would be for the rest of my life. And I was fine with that, I suppose. I adore Draco. He’s my best friend. And I found him gorgeous, of course. But it was more that I’d never let myself consider anything different.

“But then when he told me he was gay, the world sort of shifted. And instead of feeling devastated, like I’d thought I would, I realized I was glad. Because all of a sudden, I could do what I wanted. I could experiment and have fun and have lots of meaningless sex if I wanted to. It was incredibly freeing. So that’s what I do, for now. And maybe someday I’ll meet someone who makes me want to settle down, but I’m in no rush. I’m happy where I am.”

He was shocked by the way it all made sense, by the way it was so thoughtful and almost wise. “I understand that,” he said, nodding.

“I’m assuming you and the Weasley girl are no longer an item. You don’t strike me as the cheating type,” Pansy said.

“Yeah, we’re not. I wouldn’t. I wouldn’t cheat. Not on her or anybody.”

“Figured,” said Pansy. “And good on you, honestly. Cheating’s stupid. Just stay single if you want to fuck around. Merlin knows we’re all young enough. There’s no reason to tie yourself to someone if you don’t really want to.”

“Yeah, agree,” said Harry, feeling another wave of amazement at how much damn sense Pansy Parkinson was making.

“Well, do you feel better now that you know for certain that you aren’t taking advantage of me?”

“Er, I guess?” Harry said.

“Good,” said Pansy, and kissed him, slow and deep, and it felt really good. Really good, and Harry marveled that it didn’t matter that he wasn’t in love with her, because they both wanted the same thing, and it was okay to want something that wasn’t true love or anything like it.

“I’m not going to have sex with you,” Harry said, suddenly. Because he wasn’t. This was good, and he wanted it, but he wasn’t going to lose his virginity tonight. That, he decided, he wanted to be with someone special. Someone that he did love, or could love, or something along those lines. Not because that’s what you were supposed to do, but because that was what he wanted to do. He wanted it to be that way.

“That’s fine, Harry,” said Pansy, lifting off her shirt to reveal her spectacular breasts, which were covered with a lacy, black bra. Ginny’d always worn plain white bras, which Harry had never minded, but this was quite fetching. ‘Quite fetching’ being the understatement of the century.

Pansy brought her mouth back to his, and lifted off his t-shirt, and then he was pressing up against her soft skin. She was very soft, and almost delicate, which seemed strange. Because she did not come off as a delicate person.

He lost himself in her softness, in the feel of her skin with its faint scent of roses. He lost himself in her mouth, and in her small, delicate hands, and the incredible things she could do with them. He tried his hardest to make her happy, to give her what she wanted from him, and found that he took immense pleasure in that, too, in making her feel good.

When they were done, sated and sleepy, she sighed and kissed him gently, curling up against his side.

“You could stay here tonight. If you want,” he said, his hand moving over her hair.

“Mm, you’re a darling. And you seem like you’d be nice to sleep with. But I don’t, as a rule. Just a thing of mine. If I didn’t have that rule for myself, though, I’d stay.”

“Okay,” he said, kissing her forehead. “That’s fine.”

“You’re lovely, Harry. Can’t tell you the last time I had such a spectacular orgasm, and I never lie about that, just so you know. I’m going to want to do this again.”

He laughed. “We’ll see. I’m not opposed, probably.”

“Good,” she said, giving him one more kiss. And then she gathered up her clothes and slipped out, leaving Harry to marvel at what had just occurred, and how he didn’t feel at all embarrassed about it, or guilty, or anything. Just happy, and nice, and very, very sleepy.

He slipped off, and when he woke, breakfast was already over.

He spent the morning trying to catch up on homework, since some days he was too tired to do any of it. Today he was feeling good, awake and alert, and he tore through his assignments, feeling quite proud of himself. He had an early lunch with Ron and Hermione and Luna, and felt so relaxed in the afternoon that he took a short cat-nap.

He woke up from it thinking about Malfoy. He hadn’t seen Malfoy since Malfoy’d gone to his room for firewhiskey. He didn’t know what Malfoy thought about anything: about how Harry had looked after watching Malfoy suck on Zabini’s finger, about the kiss, about Harry leaving with Pansy. He had no idea. He realized that he wanted to know, preferably before the inter-house party tonight.

He went to the showers because he felt a little sweaty after his nap, and also because Malfoy was a clean person and so he wanted to be especially clean around Malfoy. Back in his room, he put on a non-shredded pair of jeans and a dark gray t-shirt, and looked over his clothes, which really weren’t great. He considered his predicament.

Macmillan was about Harry’s size and had nice clothes. “Hey, Ernie?” he said.

“Yeah?” said Ernie, sitting on his bed with a textbook.

“Can I borrow a shirt for tonight? Something, like, I dunno. Cooler than what I own?”

Ernie laughed. “Sure, of course.” He got up and opened his closet, rifling through. He came out with a soft-looking, emerald green jumper. It wasn’t big and shlubby like all of Harry’s jumpers. “How’s this? You’d look good in this.”

“Alright, brilliant. Yeah. Thanks,” he said, taking it. He pulled it on over his head. “Good?” he asked.

“Very nice, Harry. You look sharp,” said Ernie.

“You’re going tonight, aren’t you?” asked Harry. “To the party?”

Ernie shrugged, looking unhappy. “Dunno. Bit weird with Justin and Hannah, you know.”

“I’ll make sure to hang out with you, if you want. Plus, I think basically all the girls are going. Like, every single one.”

Ernie’s mouth quirked up. “All the Slytherins are going, aren’t they? Do you think Daphne Greengrass’ll be there?”

“Daphne’s definitely going. Just talked to her about it last night,” said Harry.

“Yeah? Well. Alright. Maybe I will, then,” said Ernie, turning back to his books. Harry stepped through the door. “Hey, thanks, Harry,” Ernie called after him.

“Sure,” said Harry. “Thanks for the jumper.”

He wanted, suddenly, to tell Malfoy. Tell him that if you cared a bit, if you let yourself get even a tiny bit concerned about another person, even someone you didn’t think you liked all that much, nice things might come from that.

He straightened his shoulders and made his way towards Malfoy’s room. Ron had gone to Hermione’s room after lunch, but Justin and Blaise might very well be inside. Malfoy might very well not be here. He knocked.

“Come in,” came Malfoy’s drawling voice.

Harry swung the door open. “Hey,” he said.

Malfoy looked up at him in surprise. “Hello, Potter. Need another nap?” He was sitting on his bed in the exact same position he’d been in the other day, at the foot, cross-legged, bent over a textbook. Harry’d kissed him, last night. And Malfoy’d kissed him back. How was that possible? And how was it not happening again, right now?

Harry went and sat down on the other end of the bed. “No. Slept alright last night. You?”

“Ugh, no. Bad one. Didn’t fall asleep until the sun was up.”

“Oh,” said Harry, frowning. He didn’t like that. He knew exactly how it felt the day after a night like that, and he didn’t want Malfoy to feel that way. “Well, then, _you_ should take a nap. You’ve got to be in tip-top shape for tonight.”

Malfoy sighed, running a hand through his hair. He looked more rumpled than usual, which was to say, hardly rumpled at all, but still. He also looked exhausted, and had circles underneath his gray eyes. “Not tired. Won’t be able to nap. Can’t ever nap, really. Not a napper.”

“Oh, nonsense,” said Harry. “Everyone can nap. It’s a universal thing. Naps are glorious.”

Malfoy smiled tiredly. “It won’t happen, I’m telling you, Potter.” His eyes skimmed down Harry’s chest. “I like your jumper, by the way,” he said.

Harry smiled, pleased that he’d taken the time to borrow a good one. “Thanks.” He picked up Malfoy’s pillow and put it on his lap. “Here,” he said, patting it. “I’m going to get you to sleep, and then when you wake up, I’m going to make you look me right in the eye and tell me you were wrong about something.”

Malfoy laughed. “You’re absolutely barmy, you know that?”

“I do,” Harry said. “Now come here.”

Malfoy sighed and rubbed his eyes before looking at Harry again. He pulled a Slytherin throw out from under him and opened it up, and then sort of collapsed onto the pillow, pulling the blanket up to his chin. He looked up at Harry. “See? Not sleeping.”

Harry laughed and began threading his fingers through Malfoy’s hair. Ginny had done this for him some nights when he was all worked up, and it was wonderfully calming. Malfoy sighed and closed his eyes. “Oh, that’s quite nice,” he said.

“Just relax,” said Harry.

“Heard you fucked around with Pansy last night,” Malfoy said, keeping his eyes shut.

“Oh, Merlin. You Slytherins are such a bunch of gossips. Honestly.”

“You’re not denying it,” Malfoy said, smiling.

“Yeah, well. Pansy’s lovely.”

Malfoy snickered. “She’s something.”

Harry smacked him lightly. “Don’t talk badly about your own friend.”

Malfoy’s eyes fluttered open. They were fucking gorgeous. They just were. Harry sighed. Malfoy's eyelashes were very light, and sort of silvery. He was so strangely beautiful, a bit fae, almost. Harry wondered how he had never, in all the years that he’d stalked Malfoy around the castle, noticed that before. He’d been blind. “I love Pansy more than anyone in the world,” Malfoy said. “I love everything about her. Doesn’t mean I can’t give her shit, though.”

“True,” said Harry, who did the same thing with Ron, although never with Hermione, even though he loved her more than almost anything in the world, too.

Malfoy nodded and closed his eyes again, yawning. “You should hire yourself out for head massages, Potter. You’d make a killing.”

“Mm, I’ll think about it. Although I don’t think I’d want to give head massages to just anyone.”

“Only me, hm?”

“Yeah, just you,” said Harry, chuckling.

Malfoy made a little contented sound and shifted onto his side, curling up a bit, pulling the blanket closer to his chest. Harry let his hand move down from Malfoy’s hair to his back, rubbing it gently for a while, before coming back up to his hair.

Harry felt a bit like he’d broken in a wild horse or tamed a dragon when he heard Malfoy’s breathing even out, and felt Malfoy's body relax completely, as he slipped off to sleep.


	5. Sweet Dreams

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry and Draco supervise the inaugural inter-house unity party and stumble onto a possible solution for their sleep problems

Ooh-wee-ooh, I look just like Buddy Holly  
Oh oh, and you're Mary Tyler Moore  
I don't care what they say about us anyway  
I don't care 'bout that

**_Buddy Holly_ / Weezer**

* * *

Draco thought, for a moment, that he was back in the Manor with his mother. His face was pressed into something soft and warm, and he could feel someone breathing, steadily up and down. There was a hand in his hair, gently tugging at strands, absently twirling pieces of it, which was something his mother did sometimes, especially when he was younger. He felt safe in a way he hadn’t in a long time; safe and cared for, and content.

Then he remembered: he wasn’t at home. He was at Hogwarts, and it was the day after that horrible Truth-or-Dare gathering, during which he’d somehow convinced himself that he’d triumphed over Blaise, that he’d proved something.

He had been dead wrong.

When Blaise followed him out of the library, Draco felt incredible, like he’d won, like Blaise, in some bizarre way, was really _his_. He had, after all, driven Blaise so out of his mind that he’d left his girlfriend alone in a room full of Slytherins to trail along after him.

The feeling only grew stronger when they reached their room and found that it was empty, and Blaise spelled the door locked and pressed Draco against the back of it and kissed him breathless. Blaise’s mouth was hungry and wild, completely at odds with his usual practiced, moderated approach to fooling around. “You fucking tease,” he breathed into Draco’s ear, biting at it. “You got me so hard in there. You did it on purpose, didn’t you?”

Draco laughed and Blaise swallowed it up with his mouth, and then he was fumbling with Draco’s flies, and putting his big hand on Draco’s cock, and sucking on Draco’s neck. “I want your mouth on me,” he rasped in a strangled voice.

“You want it or you need it?” Draco asked, his head tilted back against the door.

“ _Need_ it. Goddamn you,” Blaise said, biting into Draco’s skin almost painfully.

“What about your girlfriend? Can’t you get _her_ to suck you off?” Draco knew he was toeing some invisible line, possibly crossing it. Eh, not possibly. He knew exactly what he was doing, knew that he’d basically taken a running leap over said line, but he hadn’t been able to get himself to stop.

Blaise slammed him against the door and growled. “I don’t _want_ her at the moment. I don’t _need_ her.” He pressed his cock against Draco, his eyes glittering and angry. “Fuck you, Draco. Seriously, _fuck_ you. You’ve got me all fucked up. I can’t even think straight.”

“Good,” Draco said.

Draco’s head was spinning as he dropped to his knees. He felt giddy, victorious, and painfully aroused. Blaise didn’t last long at all, coming into Draco’s mouth in minutes, crying out much louder than usual, his short fingernails pressing into Draco’s scalp.

And then, somehow, all those good feelings, that heady adrenaline cocktail, dissipated almost immediately. Draco watched as Blaise spelled himself clean and yanked his trousers back on. Blaise always kissed Draco on the cheek afterward, told him he was amazing and thanked him, but he did none of that. Instead, he glared and walked out of the room without returning the favor, leaving Draco standing there with a throbbing cock and a horrible certainty that he’d just done something very stupid.

Draco didn’t go back to the library. He wanked quickly and efficiently, because otherwise he was going to be massively uncomfortable. Afterward, his skin was crawling, itching, like it was covered in filth, and so he went to the shower and stayed there for a long time, under a scalding stream of water, scrubbing and scrubbing and scrubbing. He kept thinking of Padma’s face, about how she’d said she’d had a crush on Blaise since fourth year. It made him feel sick.

It wasn’t a new transgression, obviously. He’d been fucking around with Blaise for months and he’d known perfectly well that Blaise was with Padma. But this was different, somehow. He’d literally taken Blaise away from her, after spending an evening with the two of them, and that seemed extremely messed up.

There was something wrong with him, something inside that was spoiled and rotting.

He stood there until the water started to get cold, and then he trudged back to his room feeling like his feet were tied to bricks. He fell into bed, spinning from the long shower and the whiskey, and thought maybe he would fall asleep and be done with the night.

Only, he didn’t fall asleep. Instead, he became more and more alert and sober, and then he started thinking about awful things, about his father, dead in a hole in the ground; about Vince being swallowed up by Fiendfyre; about being in the Manor when it was full of Death Eaters and Dolohov had been in the upstairs corridor, rubbing Draco’s cock through his trousers and holding a wand to his throat.

He thought about Voldemort’s eyes and about Professor Burbage, and how she’d begged Snape to save her and how he hadn’t.

It was his usual Wartime Greatest Hits, flashing through his head over and over again, each scene feeling more and more real, sinking deeper and deeper into his bones.

And then his heart was beating so fast he thought he might have to go to Madam Pomfrey, because it hurt, almost, it was pounding so hard, and his body felt numb and pressed in on all sides. Trapped; he felt trapped. He didn’t know if Blaise was there, so he didn’t want to leave his bed, and Merlin forbid he accidentally encounter Blaise _and_ Padma, together.

Then, finally, _finally_ , the sun rose and he fell asleep for a short while. When he woke up, probably an hour later, he slipped past Blaise’s closed curtains, and went for a walk around the frozen lake, and it had cleared his head a bit, and the sun made everything seem a little less horrible.

Afterwards, he returned to his room, and Blaise’s bed was empty. He sat down and tried studying, but the words’ meanings eluded him, and all of it seemed to bleed together. His head hurt terribly.

Pansy came in for a while and told him about Potter, and he felt a strange pang at the news.

And then Potter came in, telling Draco to relax, and running his fingers through Draco’s hair, and rubbing his back, and the exhaustion crashed down on him and he slept.

Unfathomably, Potter was still here, still gently stroking Draco’s hair. It felt comforting, and good, and for many long minutes, Draco pretended to still be asleep, because he didn’t want it to stop. Just Potter’s presence made his heartbeat slow, made last night with Blaise seem far away and unimportant.

His thoughts drifted to last night – not to the bad part, but to the part before, the part where Potter had looked at him like that. And the part where Potter kissed him.

With everything that happened afterward, Draco hadn’t had a moment to think about that kiss, or what it meant. Nothing, was the obvious answer. It was a dare. Potter had already proved, by kissing each of the girls in succession, that he was throwing himself into the game, giving it his all. It’d been impressive, really, how good he’d been at it.

But Draco hadn’t expected what happened. Hadn’t expected to like it quite so much, hadn’t expected that Potter would go above and beyond what he’d already done with the others. Draco wasn’t sure how to interpret it. Potter was attracted to men, that much was clear. And possibly attracted to Draco. But beyond that, Draco had no idea. And Potter had messed around with Pansy later that night, which meant that the kiss must not have meant that much after all.

Potter’s hand was running gently over Draco’s shoulder and down his arm, then skimming over the back of Draco’s hand. Draco stayed perfectly still as Potter wrapped Draco’s hand in his own warm, calloused one, just for a moment, before returning to his hair. Draco felt a brush of fingertips against his cheek, then, so light it was barely there. A fingertip ran along his eyebrow and then carefully pushed his hair back behind his ear.

He didn’t understand Potter. Didn’t know why they were friends at all, or why their sudden friendship involved gentle touching and assisted naps. By all accounts, Potter should still despise him, should still want to cast a thousand Sectumsempras at him. And instead, he was visiting Draco’s room, coaxing Draco to sleep, and touching him the way you would touch your own child or a lover. It made no sense.

He cleared his throat, suddenly overwhelmed by the whole situation. He felt Potter’s hand withdraw, and then he blinked open his eyes, and found himself looking up into Potter’s bright green ones. “Morning,” he said.

Potter gave him a cheerful smile. “You have something to say to me, I think,” he said, setting aside Draco’s book on wizarding castles.

“Thanks?”

“Wrong. Try again.”

Draco wracked his brain and then remembered Potter’s words prior to the nap. Draco found himself laughing. “No. I’m not saying it. You played dirty, Potter. You lured me into your sleep trap.”

Potter chuckled. “My sleep trap, huh? Nice try. Just say it, Malfoy. It’ll feel good, I promise. Just say, ‘Harry, I was wrong about not being able to nap. You were right’.”

“Will not,” Draco said, sucking his lips into his mouth and pressing them together.

Potter’s face turned grave. “Then I have to do this. I’m sorry.”

“You have to do wha –”

And then Potter was fucking tickling him – and it was quite brutal, the tickling – and Draco was squirming and giggling and trying to make himself into a tiny ball so that Potter couldn’t reach any of the most ticklish parts. “Cease and desist immediately!” he shrieked, turning his head towards Potter’s leg and biting down.

“Ow! You animal! Did you just bite my fucking leg?”

Potter erupted from the bed like a volcano and somehow managed to pin Draco’s hands over his head and continue his evil tickling, even more excruciating now, because he had full access to Draco’s sides. Draco began kicking and squirming, trying to knee Potter in the bollocks or otherwise incapacitate him, and managed to sort of twist his legs around either side of Potter’s waist and maneuver out of his grasp. He wound up on top, straddling Potter’s hips. “Aha!” he said, trying to get Potter’s sneaky hands out of the way and imprison them under his knees. But Potter was Seeker-quick, his hands everywhere, avoiding capture.

Draco growled and made his own lightning-fast move, snatching Potter’s hands in his own, so that their fingers were woven together. “There,” he said again, breathing hard. “Now I’ve got you.”

Potter stilled and blinked up at him, and his eyes were so bright and so alive. Draco realized that his cock was aligned with Potter’s, that his legs were pressed against either side Potter’s legs, that their faces were agonizingly close. They were holding hands.

Potter’s chest was rising and falling fast; he was out of breath, too. His skin was hot; Draco could feel it through his t-shirt.

“Malfoy,” Potter murmured, and his eyes were on Draco’s mouth. On his mouth, and Draco was instantly back in the library, feeling Potter’s lips against his. He wanted it again. He wanted to kiss Potter again. He wanted to more than just about anything in the world.

Their hands shifted slightly, the grip softening, and Draco let go of one so that he could touch Potter’s cheek. Gently, the way that Potter had been touching him when he’d thought Draco was asleep. Potter closed his eyes and leaned into it. “Look at me,” Draco said, his voice low and rough. “Please.”

Potter looked, and their eyes caught and held, and everything felt hushed and still, like the whole world was waiting, watching, not daring to breathe.

The door banged open. “Augh!” said a Weasley voice.

“Oh!” said a Granger voice.

Draco rolled away and ended up rolling right off the bed and onto the floor, banging his hip. “Ow!” he cried. Potter was on the bed laughing like a loon.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” exclaimed Draco.

“I dunno,” he wheezed. “It’s just funny.”

“Er, we were going to get the nametags for tonight ready in here,” said Weasley.

“It’s fine,” said Potter, trying to collect himself. “I was helping Draco take a nap.”

“Oh, is that what they’re calling it now,” Granger muttered under her breath. Draco felt almost proud of her; he would have said the exact same thing if he were in her shoes.

Draco saw Pansy running into the room carrying a piece of parchment. “I’ve got the list of pairs right here!” she cried. “Shouldn’t take but a minute.” She looked at the floor. “Draco, what on earth are you doing down there?” she asked.

“This is payback isn’t it? Because I didn’t say it,” Draco thought aloud.

“Probably, yeah,” said Potter. “Karma.”

Draco glared up at him. “You were right about the nap, Potter,” he said through gritted teeth. “I was wrong.”

Potter looked at him with very wide eyes. In all likelihood, such words had never before been uttered by a Malfoy, and certainly not by Draco Malfoy. Potter leaned down and hugged him. “There, was that so hard?” he asked.

Draco sighed.

The inter-house unity get-together was being held in the Common Room. The library had some libations available for those who wanted them, but Granger had insisted that they not make a big thing out of it or put too much pressure on anyone. Which, as much as Draco hated to admit it, seemed fair. Not everyone else was as keen on drinking away their brain cells as Draco and his friends.

Surprisingly, though, about a half hour before the event began, Pansy convinced Granger to slip into the library with her, and the two of them had polished off nearly a whole bottle of wine together and seemed rather pissed. They passed their party-manager baton off to him and Potter, but not Weasley, because they all knew Weasley was a useless git. Or at least that’s what Draco assumed was the reasoning behind their decision.

The first activity of the evening was some silly thing to get them all talking. There were nametags in House-labeled bags, and people had to pick one, which would correspond with one other nametag in another bag. They weren’t allowed to look at their own tag. Instead, either Draco or Potter would stick it to their forehead, and then they would have to walk around the room asking people yes or no questions to try to figure out what it said. Then, once they figured it out, they’d have to find their match.

For instance, Finnigan was walking around with a nametag on his forehead that said “Bangers”, while Theo had one that said “Mash”. Susan Bones had one that said “Filch” and Parvati Patil had one that said “Mrs. Norris”, and so on. All of it was done randomly, except for one interesting pairing that Potter had subtly orchestrated: Daphne and Ernie Macmillan. Potter had been talking with Macmillan for a while at the beginning, too, and Draco made a mental note to ask him what was going on there.

Everyone was in the beginning stages of figuring out what they were, and Draco had to admit, it was working beautifully. People who’d probably never said boo to one another in the last seven and a half years were chatting and laughing.

“This is nice,” said Potter, sidling up beside Draco at the edge of the room, sipping from a cup of the non-alcoholic punch that was sitting out on a table.

“Rather pedestrian, but yes, I suppose it’s nice,” said Draco.

“Pedestrian?” Potter said, raising an eyebrow.

“Yes, it means –”

“I know what it means, you git. I’m just wondering if you have any idea what a ponce you sound like sometimes.”

Draco frowned, and then, because he was mature, flipped Potter off.

Potter’s elbow connected with Draco’s ribs.

Draco stomped on Potter’s foot. “Don’t start, Potter. I’ll destroy you.”

“I’m quaking in my trainers.”

“Oh, for Merlin’s sake,” said Pansy, coming over with her arm linked through Granger’s. “You’d never guess that you two were fully grown, eighteen-year-old men.”

Granger started giggling and leaned crookedly against Pansy. “Oh, god, Pans. You should have seen them earlier. I wasn’t sure whether they were going to start kissing or punching each other. They were literally wrestling. Like a couple of puppies.”

Pansy smiled. “You weren’t there last night, Hermione, but they put on _quite_ the show –”

“Alright, that’s enough, you bints. Take your gossip elsewhere,” said Draco.

Granger looked shocked for a moment, and then began giggling again. “He called us bints,” she whispered loudly to Pansy. Then she looked over at Draco and pushed at his chest. “You, Draco Malfoy, are a gitty knob head, and you’re lucky Harry likes you.”

Draco stifled his laughter. She was really wasted. “Granger, I’m sorry,” he managed. “You’re probably not a bint. I was mostly talking to Pansy.”

“Well, you mustn’t! You mustn’t be mean to Pansy! She’s my friend! She is lovely. Just look at her!” Hermoine was patting Pansy’s cheek and Pansy was giggling.

“Everyone knows Pansy’s lovely, ‘Mione,” said Potter, putting an arm around her. “You know, Draco knows, I know. We all know.”

She tilted her head at him and smiled sweetly. “Good,” she said, and then grabbed his head and kissed his cheek. “You’re lovely too, Harry.”

“And you’re lovely, too, ‘Mione. Isn’t she lovely, Malfoy?”

“Quite lovely,” Draco said, nodding.

Granger glared at him for a moment before sighing, and then, to his amazement, pulled him into a hug. “I suppose you might be lovely too, Draco. If Harry thinks so.”

Draco met Potter’s eyes over the top of her head and saw that he was trying not to laugh. He patted Granger’s back softly. “Thank you, Hermione. You’re lovely _and_ kind-hearted.”

She pulled away and looked at him very seriously. “Yes. I am.” Then after a moment, she broke and started giggling again.

Pansy seemed amused by her new friend. She collected Granger, threading her arm through Granger’s once more, and the two of them began making rounds, ostensibly to help people who were still struggling to figure out their name tag. Draco thought they would probably either end up blurting out the answer, or just cause further confusion, but oh well. “Does she drink, usually?” he asked.

“Never,” said Potter, shaking his head and laughing some more. “Ron and I did a bit this summer, but she never would. She’s likes to be in control of herself, that one. Apparently not tonight, though.”

“Pansy’s got that effect on people. Gets them excited to do things they usually wouldn’t.” He didn’t realize until he said it that it could be just as easily applied to her tryst with Potter.

Potter turned a little red. “It’s true. I’ve never really done that before with someone I wasn’t, you know… _with_. It was a little strange. Different. Nice, but different.”

“I’m hardly in a position to judge you,” Draco said.

“Right, I forgot. You’ve shagged a million people,” Potter said uncomfortably, scratching at his neck.

Draco laughed. “Is that what you think? Potter, I’ve shagged one. One person. That’s it.”

Potter looked at him with wide eyes. “Really?”

“Really.”

“Oh,” he said, looking down into his punch. “Oh. Who?”

“I can’t really say. Sorry.”

“How come?” Potter asked, frowning.

“Complicated,” said Draco.

People were mostly paired off now, having found their match. There were a few partner games that he and Potter were going to have to facilitate in a minute, although there was no reason why they couldn’t also compete. “You want to pair up with me for this part?” asked Draco. “I think we could probably clean up in some of the games.”

Potter looked at him and smiled crookedly. “Probably? We’re going to take this whole damn thing.”

At the end of the night, they’d tied for first place, points-wise, with Daphne and Ernie Macmillan. They were very proud of themselves, and roared out their victory over the crowd, and then got booed because everyone was saying they couldn’t place because they’d organized the event. Harry tried to argue that it was actually Granger and Pansy who had done the organizing, but since Granger and Pansy had collapsed in a giggly heap in the corner about an hour earlier, nobody believed him.

Draco calmed Potter down and very graciously awarded first place to Daphne and Ernie. First place was a pair of towels transfigured to look like red velvet robes edged in ermine, and a couple of sticks from outside that had been transfigured into crowns.

Everyone cheered for their new king and queen, and then someone put on music and people started casually chatting. When some muggle song that Draco had (obviously) never heard came on, Granger squealed and dragged Pansy out of their little giggle corner and forced her to dance, and then a few other people joined in. Word got out about the firewhiskey and elfwine that was hidden away in the library, and soon groups of people (from different houses, no less) were sneaking in to partake.

All in all, the first inter-house unity party was a raging success.

Next to Draco, Potter was yawning. “I’m shattered,” he said. “I think I’ve got to go to bed.”

Draco was feeling nervous about sleep. Because of his nap, maybe. Or because of the stuff with Blaise that he hadn’t allowed himself to think about during the party. He had an anxious undercurrent running through his body that didn’t bode well for tonight. He considered whether he ought to start chugging firewhiskey; maybe that would help. “Sure,” he said. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Potter looked over at him. “You okay?”

“Course,” he said.

“No, you’re not. I can tell that you’re not. You have that clenchy jaw thing going on that you get sometimes.”

Draco raised an eyebrow. “Clenchy jaw thing? Your eloquence is astounding per usual, Potter.”

“Prat,” Potter said, rolling his eyes. “Come on, you’re coming with me.”

“What? I most certainly am not,” Draco protested.

“You _are_. I can tell you’re worried about sleeping. You looked downright spooked when I mentioned going to bed. And I don’t understand it, but we seem to help each other sleep. We ought to just accept it. You have to admit, it would make life easier, if we were sleeping normally.”

It certainly would make life easier. Draco didn’t trust in this method like Potter did, but then again, he _had_ napped, and he never napped. So maybe there was something to it.

Still. “You think we’re going to cuddle up in a bed together in the evenings and everyone’s going to just shrug and act like that’s no big deal?”

“It’s _not_ a big deal. I always slept with Hermoine and Ron when we were in the Forest of Dean. It helped us get through that. And with Ginny, sleeping with her had the same effect. It’s a thing, Malfoy. It helps.”

“Everyone’s going to think something’s going on. Between us.”

Potter threw his hands up. “What the fuck do we care what they think? _I_ certainly don’t care. I learned to stop caring a long time ago. Possibly around the time you printed up all those Potter Stinks buttons.”

Draco started laughing; he couldn’t help it. “Just had to bring that up, did you?”

Potter grinned. “I did.”

“The beds are small,” Draco said.

“Look, if that’s weird, we can sleep head to toe. Whatever. I don’t care. I just think we should try it.”

Draco looked at Potter, into those green eyes that were just now burning with the light of his latest conviction. He was mad as a bag of ferrets. And yet, Draco was so tired of being _so_ _tired_ that he was going to say yes. He was going to try this ridiculous experiment. “Fine.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah, sure. Fine. I’ll need to get ready for bed.”

“Okay. Come to my room when you’re done.”

“We’re going to confuse the fuck out of Finnigan and Macmillan and Corner.”

Potter laughed. “It’ll be grand. Come on.” And with that, he took Draco’s arm and pulled him in the direction of the dorms.

  
Draco stopped first in his room to put on some pajamas. He often just slept in his pants, but that seemed inadvisable given the current situation. He picked up his pillow, thinking it might come in handy, and then he headed to Potter’s room, feeling apprehensive.

“Oh my god, calm the fuck down,” said Potter when he came in. Potter put his hands on Draco’s shoulders and pushed down, and Draco realized they’d been tensed, that they’d been up by his ears.

Potter was in a pair of plaid pajama trousers and a thin, white cotton t-shirt. Draco realized he’d never been in Potter’s room. It looked almost like Draco’s, except the trunk at the foot of Potter’s bed was a different color, and he had an oversized pillow with a Gryffindor lion on it instead of a Slytherin throw. There were some books and a pair of jeans on his bed, but Potter pushed them off onto the floor. “There,” he said, gesturing.

“Philistine,” murmured Draco before climbing into the bed. He eyed Potter, then slipped under the covers. Everything smelled like coconut.

“You want me to sleep with my head down by your feet?”

“Yes, please,” said Draco. That was probably better, wasn’t it?

Potter scooted into the bed and Draco stayed still for a moment as Potter moved his feet around. They were near Draco’s shoulder, and then right next to his face. “Ugh, no. I can’t deal with your feet all night.”

“Okay, just…scoot your pillow over to one side.”

Draco scooted closer to the wall side, and Potter climbed up and set his pillow next to Draco’s. Then they were lying side-by-side, shoulders touching. It was a very small bed. “This is stupid,” said Draco.

Potter pulled out his wand and muttered something, and the bed widened a few inches, which helped. “There,” he said.

Draco had never felt less like sleeping. This was absurd. It was definitely not going to work.

At least he was too busy being annoyed with Potter to think about anything terrible.

“Do you usually sleep on your back?” asked Potter.

“No,” said Draco. He was a side-sleeper. He tended to curl into a ball.

“Me either,” Potter said. “Why don’t you face that way,” he said, pointing towards the wall.

Draco sighed and rolled towards the wall, curling like he usually did, and slipping one hand under his pillow.

Potter turned that way, too. They weren’t touching, really, except for their feet a bit, but Draco could feel the heat of Potter’s skin, could hear him breathing softly. “Relax, you weirdo,” said Potter.

“I’m _trying_ ,” Draco huffed.

Suddenly, Potter’s hand was on his shoulder, and then it was kneading his shoulder gently. Then back up to his hair like before, and then rubbing across his back.

Draco felt all the tension pour out of his body, like he was a tea pot and somebody had just tipped him over. He closed his eyes and let himself forget everything except for the feel of Potter’s hand.

He didn’t remember falling asleep, but he must’ve. When he woke up, it was still dark. He bolted upright and looked at Potter beside him, snoring softly. He should go back to his room, he realized. If he left now, he’d avoid all the inevitably awkward encounters that would come with the morning.

He crawled down to the foot of the bed. “Malfoy,” said Potter’s voice, craggy with sleep. “Don’t even think about it.”

Draco sighed and settled back down, and then Potter’s arm was suddenly wrapped around him, and Potter was pulling Draco close. Dear Salazar, they were spooning. What was worse, it felt…nice.

He slept.

When Draco woke again it was fully light out, and he could hear Macmillan and Finnigan talking softly on the other side of the curtains. Potter was still asleep, with an arm and a leg draped over Draco. His head was tucked into the back of Draco’s neck, and his hair was tickling Draco a little.

It was so strange, and yet not. There was something about it that felt a bit like they’d been doing this for ages, like they’d always done it. Draco put a hand on top of Potter’s, and pulled Potter’s arm tighter around his chest.

Potter sighed, his breath tickling Draco's neck, and snuggled closer. 

Draco could feel Potter’s cock pressing against him suddenly. It was hard.

He needed to get out of here.

He extracted himself from Potter’s embrace and slid down towards the foot of the bed. He waited for a moment hoping that Potter’s roommates would leave. Unfortunately, they didn’t appear to have any intention of doing so. Draco took a deep breath and climbed out.

They immediately stopped talking.

“Macmillan. Finnigan,” he said, nodding. They stared, mouths open.

“Er, ‘morning, Malfoy,” Finnigan managed.

He walked out with as much dignity as he could muster.


	6. Friends Without Benefits

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry realizes he likes Draco a little too much

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Same fic, new name!

That old dog has chained you up alright  
Give you everything you need  
To live inside a twisted cage  
Sleep beside an empty rage  
I had a dream I was your hero

Damn, I wish I was your lover

_**Damn, I Wish I Was Your** _ **_Lover_ / Sophie B. Hawkins**

* * *

Harry knew before he opened his eyes that Malfoy had gone. He tried not to dwell on how disappointing that was. Instead, he stretched, and thought about how he’d slept through the night twice in a row. His head felt clear and sharp, nothing hurt, and that fuzzy sort of anxiety that seemed ever-present wasn’t there. 

He stayed there for a few minutes, hands behind his head, letting his mind wander. Malfoy had been here, in his bed. He had let Harry cuddle with him. They’d both slept. It had worked, just like Harry had known it would.

And last night, at the party, he and Malfoy had worked together, and talked together, and been on a team together, and it had all been so fun. Malfoy was _fun._ Harry would’ve never guessed it 

Malfoy was, after all, the boy who had stomped on his nose. That bore thinking about. But then again, Malfoy was also the boy he’d made bleed in the bathroom, to such an extent that Myrtle had shrieked about a murder. That was worse than a nose stomp. Although, to be fair, Harry hadn’t known what the curse would do, and he was fairly confident that Malfoy had known exactly what kicking Harry's face in would do. But, that was in the past. Everything was different now -- Harry was different and Malfoy was different, too. The war had made everything shift, a little. Harry often thought about the negative things -- the losses, the scars. But maybe there were some good changes, too. Maybe it had forced them all to reevaluate their beliefs and their priorities. Maybe it had forced them to grow up.

It was mad, to think that they might be friends now. Madder still, to consider that they might be more than friends, although Harry wasn’t sure of that. He’d never been very good at these things. Ginny had to practically hit him over the head with it to get him to understand that she liked him. And Pansy had come straight out and propositioned him, which certainly cut through the confusion. And Cho…Harry shuddered, thinking about what a disaster that had been. No, Harry wasn’t very good at matters pertaining to the heart, at understanding what things meant or didn’t mean.

But sometimes Malfoy looked at him for too long, or leaned towards him while they spoke. And then there was the truth-or-dare kiss, which had been…whew, it had been something. And then yesterday, after Malfoy’s nap, when they’d been wrestling, there had been that electric moment, where Malfoy’s face had changed, and he had touched Harry’s face with such gentleness, and asked him to look at him, in a voice that sounded absolutely wrecked. Oh Merlin, what he wouldn’t give to rewind that moment and cast a Collopurtus and a few privacy charms at the door. Fuck Ron and Hermione and Pansy. I mean, he loved Ron and Hermione more than the world itself, and Pansy was pretty great, too, but still. Fuck them for interrupting. Harry’d wanted to hex them all, at least once he’d stopped laughing maniacally. Harry hadn’t meant to laugh, but he was a giggler, especially in stressful situations. He couldn’t help it.

Harry had been too tired last night to become fully aroused (okay, fine, he’d had to make himself think of Filch and spoiled milk a little bit, too). But even though he wasn’t thinking much about sex, last night had sparked something inside of him. Lying there with his arms around Malfoy, feeling Malfoy’s warm, firm back against his own chest, and breathing in Malfoy’s minty shampoo and his citrus cologne had made Harry ache in a lovely way. It made him feel warm and happy, and, also, afraid. Because Harry knew all too well what might happen when someone made you feel like that. Real death, sometimes. Or other times, metaphorical death, when they dumped you on your ass and started dating Dean Thomas two weeks later.

Harry sighed, hating himself for being such a sap. Why could he not be sextually attracted to someone without starting to develop all these _feelings_? Even Pansy, with whom he’d had as transactional an encounter as humanly possible, now held a soft spot in his heart. And of course, Malfoy was even worse, because they’d talked so much at this point, and they’d shared important things with one another. And also, Malfoy kept using that mint shampoo, which made everything so much worse.

He pushed open his curtains and climbed out of bed and saw Seamus on his own bed, reading through Monday’s Potions assignment. “You’re up and at ‘em early,” Harry remarked.

Seamus raised an eyebrow. “Not all of us were up all night shagging Draco Malfoy,” he said.

Harry sighed. He should probably get used to this, if he and Malfoy were going to make a regular thing of sleeping together. “Didn’t shag him. Just slept by him. We’re trying to see if sleeping by each other will stop our insomnia.”

Seamus looked at Harry for a moment before collapsing into a fit of laughter. “Sure, Harry,” he said.

“I mean it!” cried Harry. “I swear! Although...” he thought for a moment. No time like the present, he supposed. “I _am_ attracted to blokes. Girls, still, too. But also boys.”

“Oh,” said Seamus, his laughter dying away. He furrowed his brow. “So you’re bi?”

“Yeah, that,” Harry said. “I am.”

“Well, I’m gay,” said Seamus.

“Oh?” said Harry, looking at his friend closely. “Can’t say I would’ve guessed.”

Seamus shrugged. “I’ve not told anyone besides Dean. But I figured since you were sharing…”

Harry huffed a laugh. “Yeah, why not, right?”

Seamus considered him. “You know, you’re, like, the only other queer bloke I know.”

Harry almost blurted out that Malfoy was gay, because he desperately wanted to ask if Seamus thought Malfoy was fit, or whether it was just Harry who thought so, but thankfully, he remembered in time that it was not his secret to tell. “Yeah, I know.” Harry was quiet for a moment and then said, “Hey, maybe you and I should date.”

He was joking, but he immediately regretted saying it, because _ew_ , he didn’t want to date Seamus. He’d roomed with the guy for years. It would be like dating Ron. Just…ew. Thankfully, Seamus looked fairly well disgusted at the thought of it, too. “I’m kidding,” said Harry, in case there was any doubt.

“Oh, thank Merlin,” said Seamus, heaving a sigh of relief. “No offense, Harry, but you’re not my type.”

Harry laughed. “Likewise.” He felt wonderful, all of a sudden, like he’d done something a little bit brave, and also like he was stepping across some important threshold. His heart was light and happy, and he felt almost giddy, like he wanted to dance and sing and shout.

In the Great Hall, the usual incredible Sunday breakfast was in full swing. Ron and Hermoine were sitting with Pansy and Neville at one end of the Eighth-Year table, and Malfoy was at the other end with the rest of the Slytherins. Harry waved at Hermione, who happened to look up and see him.

He ran over to stand next to her, excitement bubbling up in his chest. “Morning, guys,” he said, unable to stop grinning. “I wanted to tell you something.”

“What is it, Harry?” asked Hermione, shutting her eyes and rubbing her temples. “Sorry my eyes are closed. The sun seems especially bright today.”

“Hermione’s hungover,” whispered Ron.

“Not surprised, you lush,” said Harry, laughing. “Anyway, what I wanted to say is that I’m bisexual.”

Hermione’s eyes suddenly opened. Ron choked on his scone.

“Bravo, Harry,” said Pansy. “Very impressive turnaround.”

Harry’s grin widened. He felt good about impressing Pansy Parkinson.

“That’s great, Harry,” said Hermione, looking at him closely. “You seem happy about it. That’s wonderful. Truly.”

“I _am_ happy about it,” he said.

“Good for you, Harry,” said Neville, patting Harry’s arm.

Ron, still coughing up scone, gave him a thumbs up.

“Yeah, well, I just wanted to let you know,” he said, nodding to himself. “I’ll see you upstairs in a bit.” And with that, he made his way to the other end of the table.

“Harry Potter!” cried Blaise. Padma, who was sitting next to him, gave a little smile and wave. “How goes it?”

“Goes well, thanks,” said Harry, sitting down next to Malfoy.

“You’re sitting here?” asked Malfoy. He was looking wide-eyed at Harry’s seat.

“That okay?” asked Harry, suddenly concerned that Malfoy was going to push him off.

“Of course,” Malfoy said, returning to his breakfast.

“So, we slept,” Harry said.

“We did,” said Malfoy. He seemed oddly tense.

“I was right. _Again_.”

That coaxed a little smile from him. “Twit,” Malfoy said, finally meeting his eyes.

“Hey, so I want to tell you something,” Harry said, leaning over to pick a sausage off Malfoy’s plate. Malfoy slapped at his hand, but Harry managed to take it, and quickly took a bite.

“Well, what is it then?” Malfoy asked, sounding bored. “The suspense is killing me.”

“I’m bisexual,” Harry said. It felt easier each time he said it, and the word was starting to feel like it belonged to him, somehow.

Malfoy arched an eyebrow. “And I’m devastatingly handsome and the smartest person in our year besides Granger,” he said, snatching the sausage back from Harry’s grasp. “Since we’re sharing obvious things about ourselves.”

Harry blinked at him. “Wait. You _knew_?”

Malfoy rolled his eyes. “Yes, Potter, I knew. Most straight men don’t practically come in their pants while they watch one bloke suck another bloke’s finger.”

Harry felt very hot all of a sudden. Dangerously hot. Possibly life-endingly, brain-boilingly hot. “Er…”

“It’s fine, you idiot. I’m glad to have played a part in your journey of self-discovery. And I can hardly blame you. I do have a very talented mouth.”

“Er…”

Malfoy started laughing. “Oh Merlin, Potter. I don’t know why I like you. You’re so ridiculous.”

Harry pinched Malfoy’s arm. “Because I’m your own personal sleeping potion. And I give excellent head rubs.”

“True,” Malfoy said, swatting Harry’s hand away. “Although you’re a terrible bed hog.”

“Am not. I’m just a cuddler.”

Daphne was on the other side of Malfoy. “Wait,” she said, looking over at them. “What?”

“Malfoy and I are trying a sleep experiment,” Harry said. “Neither one of us sleeps very well, but for whatever reason, we sleep when we’re together. So we’re going to try that for a while. See if it cures this insomnia thing.”

Malfoy glared. “Potter, must you be so forthcoming? There’s confidence, and then there’s…whatever you have.”

Daphne looked back and forth between the two of them. “You’re sleeping together?”

“I’ve not actually agreed to any of this,” Malfoy said. “I agreed to last night, in order to test your theory. That’s all.”

“Yes, but my theory was _correct_ , wasn’t it? And of course we’re going to continue doing it. Why wouldn’t we?”

“Oh, I don’t know, maybe because it’s _weird_?” Malfoy huffed.

“I think it’s nice,” Daphne offered. She was an incredibly sweet person, Harry was discovering. He didn’t understand how the hell she’d ended up in Slytherin; she didn’t even smirk. “I had a lot of trouble sleeping last year when everything was happening.” The war, Harry thought. The Death Eater invasion of Hogwarts. Yes, he could understand why that would make it difficult to sleep. “If I’d had someone to stay with me, I would’ve been grateful.”

“See?” Harry said. “I told you, Malfoy. It’s a thing.”

Daphne nodded.

“Oh, fine,” Malfoy said, rolling his eyes. “This week, alright? We’ll keep it up for a week. Who knows if it’ll keep working, anyway. It might’ve been that we were both so exhausted we’d have crashed anyway.”

“You’re such a wanker,” Harry said, groaning. “Such a stubborn wanker.”

“Fine, sleep with someone else if I’m so horrible,” Malfoy said, looking over at Harry with his startlingly gray eyes narrowed.

Harry wanted to hit him, and maybe also kiss him. He grabbed Malfoy’s toast.

“Goddamnit, Potter, get your own food!”

“Yours is better,” Harry said. “It tastes like it belongs to someone who takes an inordinate amount of showers.”

“Oh my god. Honestly.” Malfoy was grinning again, though, unable to help himself.

“Hey, Daphne,” Harry said, suddenly remembering. “Good job last night. You and Ernie were a force to be reckoned with.”

She smiled, blushing prettily. “Oh, thanks. We had so much fun. And Ernie’s nice.”

“Oh?” asked Harry. “Interesting. Because he thinks you’re nice, too.”

“Did he say anything?” she asked, quietly, sneaking a glance around the Great Hall.

Harry shrugged. “Maybe.” He popped the rest of the toast into his mouth and chewed, then took a sip of Malfoy’s tea. Malfoy sighed but didn’t smack Harry’s hand. “If he asked you to go to Hogsmede or something, would you go?”

Daphne’s hands reached up to her hair, and she pulled it over her shoulder, combing through it nervously. “Um, yes? Probably? Do you think he will? Ask me, I mean?”

“Dunno,” said Harry. “Wouldn’t surprise me, though. If he did.”

“Well,” Daphne said, thinking. “You might hint, you know, that I’d go. If he asked. But don’t tell him I said.”

“I’d never,” Harry promised. “And yeah, I’ll do that.”

Daphne nodded and turned back to her own breakfast. But Harry noticed that the little smile lingered on her face for a while afterwards.

“What’s with you and Macmillan being friends all of a sudden?” Draco whispered when Daphne had turned back to Goyle.

Harry shrugged. “We’ve always been alright, I guess. But yesterday, he lent me a jumper and we talked a bit and he sounded really down about Hannah and Justin. But then he asked about Daphne, and, well…” Harry leaned closer. “I may have deliberately paired them together last night.”

“No shit, Potter. You’re not exactly subtle.”

Harry blinked. He thought he’d been extremely subtle about that. Damn it. “Yeah, okay. Fine. I’m not subtle. But! I wanted to point this out to you, by the way. I opened myself up to Ernie, right? I allowed myself to care about his problems, to be _concerned_ , and now look what’s happened! Good things, Malfoy. It’s made Ernie happy, and now it’s made Daphne happy…don’t you see what happens when you get to know people?”

Malfoy stared at him for a moment, considering. “Should’ve known that jumper wasn’t yours,” he said. “Fit much too well.”

“You said it looked good,” Harry reminded him.

“Yeah, well, it did,” Malfoy said, looking away. “You ought to put effort into yourself more often. I mean, I know you’re _Harry Potter_ and all, so it hardly matters and people will love you regardless, but. You clean up well.”

“I don’t know much about clothes,” Harry admitted. “I kind of just wear stuff that’s comfortable.”

Malfoy eyed his baggy, frayed jumper and jeans that had never been fashionable even when they’d been new. Which was a long time ago. “Are we back to stating obvious things about ourselves?” he asked. “Alright, let’s see. I’m excellent at Quidditch.”

Harry snorted. “Not as good as me, though, Malfoy.”

“Am _so_ ,” Malfoy said. He’d already been sitting straight, but he drew himself up higher. “You had an incredibly strong team around you. Seeker v. Seeker, I’d take you in a heartbeat.”

“Is that a challenge?” Harry asked. It was freezing outside, but they could always cast warming charms.

“I think it is, Potter.”

“You’re on.”

It was cold as a witch’s tit outside, and despite casting a million warming charms over himself, Harry was shivering like mad, and his eyes were watering because of the frigid wind. His tears had made little frozen trails along his face.

They’d found the snitch once, and raced towards it from opposite ends of the pitch. They'd collided rather brutally, and then the snitch had somehow gotten away. Now Harry was back to scanning the ground, high up in the sky, looking for a flash of gold. Malfoy was nearby, circling.

Out of the corner of his eye, Harry saw Malfoy make a sudden directional change and Harry, without thinking, dove in the same direction. And there it was, down by the ground, flitting about erratically, then racing off to the left.

Harry forgot he was cold, then, when the world narrowed to the snitch, as it always did. Harry picked up speed, fresh tears whooshing back from the corners of his eyes and immediately freezing. Then it was there, almost within reach, only Malfoy was a tiny bit ahead of him, his arm already extended. Harry swerved towards him, knocking him a bit, but Malfoy was undeterred. Harry reached out his hand, extended himself as far as he possibly could without falling off, and made a grab for it.

But Malfoy had gotten there first, and Harry’s hand closed around Malfoy’s instead of the snitch.

They clattered to the ground together, hitting rather hard but not hard enough to cause real damage. The snow was all around them, and Harry had never been colder. Still, he refused to let go.

“You lost, Potter!” cried Malfoy, grinning. “You lost! I won!”

“Lies!” cried Harry, laughing, trying to peel Malfoy’s fingers off the snitch.

“You’re such a sore loser! Look at you!” Malfoy said, cackling.

Harry growled and really threw himself into it, using both hands to pry at Malfoy’s, and then kicking at Malfoy with his trainers. They were both positively covered in snow.

Then Harry was on top of Malfoy, pressed against him. And he realized that was where he wanted to be all along. _Kiss him_ , said a voice in his head. _Kiss him_. They were all alone out here, no Blaise to clap and laugh at them, no Ron and Hermione and Pansy.

He pulled his hand out of his glove and touched Malfoy’s cold face with it, smoothing back his hair, which looked almost yellow against the blinding whiteness of the snow.

“I won,” Malfoy whispered.

“Yeah,” said Harry, deciding he was willing to concede the point. He leaned down and his lips brushed against Malfoy’s softly, asking the question. And then, when Malfoy didn’t pull away, Harry ripped off his other glove and set his hand against Malfoy’s other cold cheek and deepened it.

Everything was so cold, everything besides the wild heat of Malfoy’s mouth and his warm throat, when Harry ran a hand down it. Malfoy groaned against his mouth and pulled Harry closer, wrapping his arms around him and lifting up slightly into Harry’s kiss.

Malfoy raised his hips, and Harry could feel, through the layers of clothes, Malfoy’s cock pressing against him. Harry gasped. It felt so good against him, so incredibly good. “ _God_ ,” he said against Malfoy's lips.

Malfoy’s tongue was hot and slick against his own, his lips wet and feverish. Harry moved his mouth down to Malfoy’s throat, which was soft and warm and smelled incredible. It was an oddly gorgeous part of him, all pale and long and elegant, with an Adam’s apple that became prominent when he tilted his head back against the snow. Harry pressed his mouth against the skin there, feeling dizzy and overwhelmed, feeling hot and cold all at once. Lightening was dancing through his veins, lighting up every inch of his skin.

“ _Harry_ ,” Malfoy moaned, and god, his name sounded so good on those lips.

Harry ran his thumbs across his cheeks and returned to his mouth, kissing him slow and deep, in a way that almost hurt in its intensity. “Draco,” he whispered against his mouth. “You feel so good. God, you feel good.”

The body beneath his stilled. “Wait,” Malfoy… _Draco_ …said.

Harry pulled back slightly. “What?”

“I shouldn’t…we shouldn’t. This. I can’t do this.” He was sitting up, pushing Harry away.

“Why not?” Harry asked, feeling the loss of him all along the front of his body. Feeling the full force of the icy wind once more.

“Because it’s stupid.”

“It’s _not_ stupid –” Harry began, but Malfoy stopped him.

“You’ve literally _just_ figured out you’re attracted to men. We’ve stumbled onto this sleeping thing, and I’m sure that makes us feel…grateful, to each other. But I don’t think you really want this.”

“But –”

“And even if you do, which I doubt, you deserve to know that I’m…well, I’m sleeping with someone else. I mean, not sleeping with them, you know, but. Having sex with them.”

“You…who?” asked Harry. “The person you wouldn't tell me about last night?”

Malfoy nodded. “Yes.”

“So, what is this thing? Do you, like, love him? Are you together?”

“No, I don’t…I don’t know. It’s confusing. We’re not together, but…I don’t know, Harry.”

“Do you like him more than me?” Harry asked, wanting to know and not wanting to know all at once.

“I don’t – ugh. It’s totally different. I don’t know _what_ I feel about you, to be honest. Haven’t really had much time to think about it. As for this other person…I don’t know. I go back and forth about what I really feel. It’s _something_ , though, and I can’t just…”

“So why aren’t you with him? Dating him? Sleeping with him, like, you know. _Sleeping_. Why did you need me for that?”

“I told you, it’s complicated.” Draco’s face scrunched up and he ran a hand through his snow-covered hair. “He’s not – he’s not really _open_ , about his sexuality.”

“Oh,” said Harry, hating this person. Whoever it was. He knew that for some people, coming out wasn’t the quick and easy thing it had been for Harry, and he knew there were things – intolerant friends, parents, for instance – that might make it incredibly different. But still, Malfoy didn’t deserve to be someone’s dirty secret. That wasn’t fair. “You should be with someone who’s proud to be with you.”

Malfoy blinked over at him, seeming thrown, and then his eyes narrowed. “Why? Because I _deserve_ it? In what world, Potter? The way I’ve lived my life, I should be grateful to still be alive. Could’ve ended up like my father. Should have, probably.”

Harry flinched at the harshness of Malfoy’s words. “That’s not funny.”

“I’m not _trying_ to be funny.”

Harry tried to take his hand, but Malfoy pulled away. “I’m sorry about your father, Malfoy. I never told you that, but I am. I was sorry to hear what happened to him.”

“Because you liked him so much?” Malfoy spat, suddenly sounding a lot like the old Malfoy.

“No,” Harry said carefully. He felt once again like he was taming some wild creature, like one wrong move might spook it, might result in it fleeing or becoming violent. “I didn’t. He was cruel and arrogant, and he sided with Voldemort. But he didn’t deserve what happened to him. And you certainly didn’t deserve to lose him, after everything.”

Malfoy looked away, off towards the castle.

“And yes, you deserve to be with someone who is proud of you.”

Malfoy shut his eyes tightly. “It’s cold. Let’s go in.”

Harry sighed. It _was_ really fucking cold. His teeth were chattering. “Can we still sleep together? Or are you going to be all weird, now?”

Malfoy chuffed out a laugh. “I won’t be all weird. You’re still my...”

“Friend?” asked Harry.

“Yes,” said Malfoy. “I suppose you are.”

“Okay,” said Harry. That was better than the alternative, which, at this point, he didn't think he would be able to bear very well. Not being friends with Malfoy, not having Malfoy in his days (and nights), seemed impossible. Intolerable. They collected their brooms and headed back to the castle, then stood in front of the Eighth-Year Common Room fireplace, trying to get warm.


	7. Out From Inside

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Draco and Harry begin a campaign to change the school

I am colorblind  
Coffee black and egg white  
Pull me out from inside  
I am ready, I am ready, I am ready,  
I am taffy stuck and tongue tied  
Stutter shook and uptight  
Pull me out from inside  
I am ready, I am ready, I am ready,  
I am fine

I am covered in skin  
No one gets to come in  
Pull me out from inside  
I am folded and unfolded and unfolding  
I am colorblind

_**Colorblind** _ **/ Counting Crows**

* * *

Draco was apprehensive that night as he changed into his pajamas. He’d been around Potter most of the day, so the initial awkwardness after their Quidditch-match-slash-make-out-session had faded after they’d thawed out in the common room and then studied in the library with Pansy and Weasley and Granger. They were back to their usual playful banter by evening, all of it easy and light.

But they hadn’t _touched_ since that moment in the snow. And sleeping together involved touching. And Draco wasn’t exactly sure how well he’d do at thwarting Potter’s advances (if Potter made any), considering that some part of him didn’t even _want_ to thwart them. Then there was the possibility that he’d lose his mind the way he’d done after yesterday’s nap and try to make advances of his own.

And that wasn’t on, was it? Because it was true, what Draco had said. Potter only acknowledged that he was into men _that day_ \-- literally! -- and Draco thought that it was entirely possible, knowing Potter, that he’d only started to suspect this on Friday during truth or dare.

Given the vast number of openly gay students in their year (Potter coming out this morning brought the number to exactly one), it only made sense that Potter would gravitate towards Draco. And Draco didn’t like the idea that Potter was doing this because Draco was his only option. He could tell that Potter _thought_ that he felt something for him, but also knew that it was likely the thrill of his own discovery, the dizzying speed at which they’d formed this friendship, and again, the fact that Draco was literally the only queer boy around, at least as far as Potter knew. It made sense that this combination would be enough to convince someone they had feelings that they didn’t truly have.

And, complicating matters further, there was the fact that this was _Potter_ , the Boy Who Lived, the greatest hero the wizarding world had ever known, and he was _Draco Malfoy_ , Death Eater scum. Potter ought to be with someone respectable, like the Weasley girl. Draco wondered whether perhaps one of the dozen or so older, male Weasley spawn was bent, so that Potter could take up with _him_.

Finally, if this all weren’t enough to make it clear that getting romantically involved with Potter was a terrible idea, there was Blaise (who still wasn’t speaking to Draco, but still). Blaise’s silence was hurting Draco’s feelings more than he wanted to admit. And until Draco and Blaise worked through whatever was happening, Draco knew he wasn’t fit to be with anyone else.

He was angry at Blaise. He was embarrassed, yes, by how he’d behaved on Friday. But, at this point, mostly he was angry. He and Blaise had been friends their whole lives. They hadn’t been _best_ friends or anything when they were younger, but they’d always _been there_ , in one another’s orbit. And during fourth year, after Pansy, Blaise, and Draco had begun cavorting with some of the older Slytherins, joining in their dorm-room parties and discovering the joys of firewhiskey and spin-the-bottle, Blaise and Draco had become extremely close. Things had happened, especially in fifth year, that Blaise hadn’t told anyone about except for Draco. Blaise had been the first person Draco had come out to, followed closely by Pansy.

Blaise and Draco had history. They knew each other, probably too well. And Draco didn’t understand how Blaise could treat him like this, given all that.

It was hard for Blaise, he knew. Blaise, even more than Draco, cared about what people thought. He cared about living a respectable, pureblood life.

Not too long ago, before the war, Draco had been the same way. He’d known he was gay, but he still planned to marry a pureblood witch and have children, because it was expected of him. But the war, coupled with his father’s death, had changed all that. Suddenly the ‘ideal’ he’d always aspired to seemed hollow and false. More than that, it seemed downright unwholesome. Nothing he’d grown up believing in was real, it was all lies, and so he wasn’t going to waste any more time trying to live up to the arbitrary standards others had set for him. He didn’t know, exactly, who he ought to be now, of course. But at least he knew who he _wasn’t_.

Blaise hadn’t had that sort of epiphany. But then, Blaise hadn’t seen what Draco had seen. He hadn’t lost a parent to pureblood bullshit. Draco knew that. He knew exactly why Blaise was doing what he was doing, but that didn’t make it any easier to bear. It still hurt.

After he brushed his teeth, Draco made his way to Potter’s room. Potter had left the door cracked open, so Draco slipped in, clutching his pillow. Potter was the only one up, using the light of his wand to read. “Hey,” he whispered.

“Hi,” said Draco, feeling suddenly shy. Ugh, all this nervousness was probably going to make it impossible to sleep, and his experiment with Potter was going to be over before it began.

Potter moved his pillow over to one side, giving Draco the side by the wall again, and expanded the bed a bit. Draco climbed over Potter and arranged his pillow in the empty space. Potter closed the curtains and cast a Muffliato and lit up the space within the purple canopy with the light of his wand.

“So I’ve been thinking,” he said.

“Uh-oh,” said Draco, which earned him a light smack.

“I hate that we weren’t friends before this year.”

Draco huffed a laugh. “Sort of hard to be friends when you’re on opposite sides of a war, Potter.”

“No, idiot, I mean before that. When we were younger. If we had been friends, maybe we wouldn’t have ended up on opposite sides of the war in the first place.”

Draco considered this. Let his mind go to a place he’d never allowed it to go before. What if, all those years ago, Potter had shaken his hand on the train? What if they _had_ been friends? Would Draco have sided with the Dark Lord? He wasn’t sure, really. He knew that part of his motivation for taking the Dark Mark had been to distinguish himself, to _prove_ himself. And if he hadn’t been busy trying to compete with Potter, maybe he wouldn’t have needed that. Or maybe he would’ve; who knew? “I don’t know, really,” he said, finally. “What’s the point of thinking about it?”

Potter was sprawled out on his back with his hand behind his head, looking over at Draco with his bright eyes. “I was thinking about the houses. Tonight, when we were all studying together, I was thinking about how that only happened because all of us Eighth Years share a living space. If we didn’t, I would’ve never talked to you. Hermione would’ve never talked to Pansy. Daphne would’ve never talked to Ernie, etcetera, etcetera.”

“That’s true,” said Draco, not sure where Potter was going with this.

“I loved being a Gryffindor, don’t get me wrong. It was a great place for me. I just wonder…if we didn’t have the houses, if we were all forced to live alongside each other from day one, maybe we would’ve all been friends a lot earlier.”

“Potter, you disliked me before we were even sorted.”

“Yeah, but that, like, cemented it. And that’s another thing that I was thinking about: I feel like it’s so arbitrary. The sorting, I mean. I’ve never told anyone this, but…” he considered Draco. “Promise you’ll never say anything to anybody?”

“I promise,” Draco sighed.

“I almost was sorted into Slytherin.”

Draco blinked at him. “ _What_?”

“Yeah.” Potter grinned. “The hat wanted me in Slytherin, and I basically begged it not to put me there, because I’d heard bad things. But imagine if I hadn’t. If I hadn’t happened to have picked up on someone’s negative opinion of Slytherin on the train, then I’d have been there. If the decision rests on little bits of happenstance like that, it seems rather…pointless, don’t you think? To even be making the decision at all?”

Draco had been proud of Slytherin, always, at least up until this year, when it’s reputation was fairly well destroyed (thanks in no small part to Draco). And yet, what Potter was saying made sense. “Yeah, I see what you mean. It _is_ rather illogical, to take things like that into consideration when making a decision that sticks with you for years.”

“Yes, exactly.” Potter paused, his eyes on Draco’s. “That’s why I think we should start a campaign to do away with the houses.”

Draco laughed. “A campaign? You’re mad.”

“No, really. We could make petitions, ask to meet with McGonagall and the Board of Directors, come up with an alternative for living arrangements. Like, I was thinking, why is it not by year? Why don’t they put first and second years together, third and fourth years together, you know, like that. It would make sense, too, since we have much more in common with people our age than with, like, eleven-year-olds.”

“But what about the whole idea that the house is supposed to bring out the strengths of the student? Supposed to help them become the best version of themselves possible?”

“Well, I’d say fuck that. Because it hasn’t worked. All it’s done is made us draw arbitrary lines of division between ourselves. It’s made us mistrust each other. Hate each other. It’s no good, Draco. I really believe that. I’m going to do this, I’ve already decided, and I’d like you to help me.”

Draco sighed. Was this what being friends with Potter was always going to be like? Constant reevaluation of the world, of himself? Constant efforts to better it all? Did Potter not ever just _relax_?

Although…perhaps Draco could use this sort of thing in his life. Maybe it would be a way to prove to people – to himself, too – that he was, in fact, different, that his priorities had changed. And maybe the houses _were_ stupid. Maybe they had outlived their usefulness, and it was time to do away with them. “Alright, yeah. I’ll help. Just…I think you should handle the public relations part of this. I can help with the behind-the-scenes stuff, but nobody’s going to listen to a Death Eater.”

Potter reached over and patted his shoulder. “I think you’d be surprised how many people would listen to you. It impacted you more than almost anyone.”

“You don’t know that, Potter. I might’ve been the same regardless.”

“Maybe,” Potter conceded. “But I saw how you were during the war. I knew you didn’t want to be helping Voldemort anymore. I could tell. You seemed so scared, and you didn’t kill Dumbledore, did you? And you didn’t turn me in at the Manor. You were changing even before the war ended.”

Draco found that he couldn’t look Potter in the eye at this point. His words were making Draco feel strange, like his soul was on display, like he was transparent as glass. “You’re going to come up against a lot of resistance with the alumni, and with the Board of Directors,” he said instead, looking back up at the canopy. “They’re very house proud, all of them. They’ll fight.”

“See? This is why I need you. I never even considered that.”

Draco snorted. “Oh Salazar. We’re so fucked, Potter, if that never crossed your mind.”

“No, we’re not. I’m the ideas guy. You’re the ‘hang on, dummy, let’s think this through’ guy. Together, we’re unstoppable!” he said, speaking grandly and spreading his hands wide. Then he jabbed an elbow into Draco’s ribs for emphasis.

Draco flicked Potter’s nose in retaliation and then yawned. “Alright, alright, I’m in. But let’s continue this discussion in the morning, shall we? I’m getting tired.”

“Yeah, okay,” said Potter, picking up on Draco’s yawn and letting out an enormous one himself. “Can I still, you know…can we still, like…”

“Are you trying to ask me if we can spoon again?”

He grinned sheepishly. “Yeah.”

Draco let out a weary sigh. “I suppose.” He turned to face the wall, and Potter scooted up close behind him and wrapped an arm around his waist. Draco let the now-familiar coconut-y smell of Potter wash over him and set his hand on top of Potter’s. “Goodnight, Potty,” he said.

“Night, Ferret,” said Potter, and rested his forehead against the nape of Draco’s neck.

“Morning, everyone,” Draco said the next morning as he climbed out of Potter’s bed. Macmillan was gathering up his shower things and Finnigan and Corner were both brushing their teeth over by the sink. This time, nobody looked particularly surprised to see Draco there.

“Good morning to you, Malfoy,” Macmillan said.

“What’s good about it?” muttered Finnigan. “Too feckin’ early, it is.”

“Seamus is a joy in the mornings,” Potter said, grinning. “A real beacon of goodwill and happiness.”

“Yeah, well, I’m with Seamus on this one,” Draco said, running a hand over his bed head in an effort to tame it. “Mornings are bloody awful.”

“I knew I’d find something to like about you, Malfoy,” Finnigan said, spitting into the sink.

The week proceeded in much the same way. Blaise didn’t speak to Draco; he seemed, in fact, to be avoiding him rather aggressively. Draco slept in Potter’s room, which also prevented him from running into Blaise too often. Potter snuggled Draco at night and they both fell asleep, and Potter didn’t try anything else. Potter’s roommates seemed to accept Draco’s presence as a matter of course, and seemed happy enough to chat with him. Finnigan and Draco continued to bond over their hatred of mornings.

During the day, Potter and Draco began planning their campaign to abolish the houses. One of the first things Draco did was pull Granger into the mix. If they could get her onboard, he knew she would be a huge asset to their efforts. She’d already managed one campaign, after all, for the house elves.

Granger, who clearly loved to have a cause, was enthusiastic from the get-go. She suggested that they reach out to Ernie Macmillan and Mandy Brocklehurst, both of whom had helped Granger a bit with the house elf campaign, so that they’d have someone from each of the houses represented in their group. Tuesday, when they all met in Potter’s room, they christened their organization ‘SASS’ (Students Against Superfluous Sorting). Granger wanted it to be ‘Students for the Abolition of House Sorting to Promote Class Unity’, but that was very long and had no fun acronym accompanying it. However, they did agree to have their mission statement read, “To abolish the sorting of Hogwarts students into houses in order to promote class unity,” which mollified her somewhat.

Their first order of business was to spread word to the students about the campaign. They decided to start with the Eighth Years, who seemed most likely to be supportive, given all they’d gone through and given, too, that they were all beginning to get to know each other. They planned an informational meeting for Friday after classes, followed by another inter-house party, thinking that the party part of it would increase turnout. They spread the word and tacked up information about the meeting and the party in the Common Room and by Thursday night, it seemed as though everyone was planning to attend.

Draco and Potter were lying in bed, talking about who was for sure going and counting up the numbers. In the morning, Draco was going to ask the kitchens to make refreshments and he wanted a rough head count so he knew how much to request.

“We really don’t know of a single person who’s refused to show up?” Draco asked, unable to get over this fact.

“No, no one,” said Potter. “Everybody’s been really excited about it, actually. I think it makes people feel good, to think that all this shit we’ve been through may produce something positive.”

“Yeah, I guess,” Draco said. It still seemed a bit mad, to him, that everyone in their class, which had always been so divided, was going to join up for a common cause.

They both grew quiet, and Draco thought it was probably time to go to sleep, but then Potter cleared his throat. “Draco, I just wondered…um. Why didn’t you turn me in? At the Manor? I’ve always wanted to know.”

Draco looked over at him in surprise. “Because I didn’t want your blood on my hands, obviously.”

“That’s the only reason?”

Draco sighed. It _was_ because he didn’t want to be responsible for Potter’s demise, but it was more, too. “It just seemed _wrong_ , somehow.”

"Would you have turned over someone else?”

“I have no idea,” Draco snapped. He didn’t like all this pressure to explain things he didn’t fully understand himself.

“What if it were Ron? Or Seamus, or someone?”

“I told you, I don’t know. Maybe. But you…” Draco huffed. Why did he always end up saying more than he intended around Potter? “Well, I knew you too well, didn’t I? Not in the way you know your friends, of course, but. I’d been keeping an eye out for you for so long that I picked up things about you along the way, things that made me feel as though I really knew you. And it would have felt wrong to do that to you. I don’t know; it doesn’t make sense. I can’t explain it.”

Potter was listening intently, and he nodded when Draco finished. “I always felt like I knew you, too. I didn’t, of course, but yeah. I was _aware_ of you in a way that I wasn’t aware of other people.”

“I guess that comes with the whole enemy thing, huh?” Draco asked.

“I don’t know. I’ve never really had another enemy,” Potter said, laughing. “You were it.”

“Um, hello?” Draco said. “The Dark Lord?”

“Okay, first of all, don’t call him that, ugh. He wasn’t a lord of anything, and he doesn’t deserve a title. And, two, no. Voldemort wasn’t my enemy. He was more like a force of nature, like a tornado or something. It was hard to hate him because he was hardly a person at all. He’d given up his humanity long before I encountered him. But you…you, I hated. It was easy to hate you.”

Draco knew exactly what he was saying. Hating Potter used to feel almost comforting. “Yeah,” he said. Now, though, even thinking of that, of how much of his energy used to be wasted on terrorizing Potter, he felt nothing but guilt and shame. It made him feel tired. He reached over and squeezed Potter’s hand. “It’s all gone, now, though. No part of me hates you anymore.”

“I should bloody well hope not,” said Potter, grinning. “Otherwise, I’d say you had serious mental health issues.”

Draco laughed and considered the other boy. Potter still didn’t fully make sense to him. He’d never understand, probably, certain things about him. Potter’s confidence was unfathomable, as was his constant warmth towards other people and his total lack of cunning. Not that Potter wasn’t smart – he _was_ – but he never used it to manipulate things or promote himself, which, to Draco, seemed to defy logic. “I couldn't hate you anymore, now that I know you. You’re a such a good person, Harry,” he said. “I like you, and I…I admire you.” He swallowed in an attempt to clear away the thing that seemed to be building in his throat.

Potter looked over at him with an expression that was incredibly soft. “You’re a good person, too, Draco. And I like you so much. It’s mad, because I never thought…but then, you’re not _at all_ what I thought. I was wrong, you know, about you.”

Draco tried to smile, but the thing in his throat was getting thicker, and now it was in his chest, too, making him feel too full and a bit wobbly.

Something seemed to shimmer and hum between them, connecting them, tying them to one another.

Suddenly, Potter cleared his throat. “Well. Bed, then, I guess. Now that we’ve gone and gotten all sappy on each other.” He smiled, and it was a little unsteady, just like how Draco felt.

“Yes, bed,” said Draco, turning towards the wall, relieved at the opportunity to hide his face. Potter’s arm swung over him like it had done every night that week, and Draco put his hand over Potter’s once again. Only tonight, instead of leaning his forehead against the crook of Draco’s neck, Potter first pressed a kiss into the skin there, so softly that Draco might’ve only imagined it.

“Night, Draco,” he whispered.

Draco’s name sounded sweet on his tongue.

“Goodnight, Harry,” he said.

It took him a little longer than usual to fall asleep that night. His chest was too full of too many things, and it felt like his heart had somehow escaped from his body, like it was living, just now, on the outside, hiding nothing, its myriad scars and tears wholly visible and on display. All of it was painful in a way that was quite new to Draco, and also lovely, all at once.

He didn’t know what to make of any of it.


	8. Spinning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry and Draco give their classmates an introduction to SASS, then participate in an impromptu game of spin-the-bottle. Oh, and also, Harry realizes he's royally screwed.

And I'm in so deep  
You know I'm such a fool for you  
You got me wrapped around your finger  
Do you have to let it linger?

 **_Linger_ ** **/ Cranberries**

* * *

Harry was trying to concentrate on the presentation he was about to give to the other eighth-year students, but he was finding it difficult. It wasn’t Harry’s fault, though. It was Malfoy’s fault.

Malfoy was talking with Pansy nearby, and whatever they were talking about must’ve been funny, because Malfoy kept laughing and smiling and his smile was quite nice, the way it sort of folded into his cheeks and made his eyes look like two little rainbows, or maybe like upside down smiles. His laugh was worth mentioning, too. He did this dry, vaguely-amused chuckling thing mostly, but sometimes, like now, when he really got going, it became these helpless, breathy giggles, and he would start wiping at his eyes because he’d be crying. And his face would turn a little pink, and he’d sort of gasp a bit, like he was laughing too hard to breathe. It always made Harry want to laugh too when he did that.

Malfoy was altogether distracting these days. There were just so many things to notice about him. Harry’d discovered that Malfoy had not one, but _two_ scars on his face. One was the little thing above his right eyebrow, and the other was a line on the left side of his mouth, extending upwards from his lip for about half an inch. It was just a tiny mark, nothing major, but worth noting.

Malfoy also had two moles on his face, small ones. They were clustered together on his cheek near his ear. They were light brown, much lighter than the ones on Harry’s forearms and stomach. Malfoy had a third mole, but it was on his neck, not his face. That wasn’t counting the ones on his arms, though. He had some there, too, although Harry hadn’t counted them. He didn’t know if Malfoy had any little moles on _his_ stomach, like Harry did, but he would very much like to find out at some point.

Malfoy had a birthmark on the back of his neck, right near where Harry liked to rest his head at night. It was light pink, about the size of a thumbprint, and it was shaped like a heart. It went up into Malfoy’s hairline, but since Malfoy kept the bottom of his hair clipped very close, and since the hair was so light, you could see the birthmark if you knew where to look. 

Harry was very fond of the birthmark. Last night, after they’d been talking, Harry hadn’t been able to resist kissing it. He should have resisted, but Harry had a problem with impulsiveness. He’d been so afraid, afterward, that Malfoy would be upset, would protest, but he hadn’t, so that was good. Apparently little closed-mouth goodnight neck kisses were allowed. Not that Harry planned to try it again, because he didn’t. But sometimes things happened before your brain had time to catch up to you, so he supposed it was possible that he’d do it again by mistake.

If someone asked him to describe Malfoy for a muggle police sketch artist, he was fairly certain he would be able to detail Malfoy’s face so precisely that it would lead to an exact rendition of the actual thing. Every time he closed his eyes, it seemed to appear there, against his closed lids, like Malfoy maybe lived in his head now. 

Lately, most things in his life seemed not-quite-there: classes, chit-chat with friends, meals, meetings with McGonagall about his plans for the next year. All of it seemed faded and almost ghost-like. The only thing that seemed to exist in vibrant technicolor at the moment, the only thing that seemed more real than reality, was Malfoy.

All of this worried Harry, in a vague way. It felt wonderful, to look at Malfoy, to memorize his face and the way he laughed, but he also knew, on some level, that he was royally fucking himself over by letting this consume him the way it was. Malfoy only wanted to be friends, and if Harry kept this up, it was going to get to the point where that was impossible. Hell, it might already be at that point, Harry wasn’t totally sure.

The good thing was that nobody could see into Harry’s head, so as long as he acted like Malfoy was just his good friend and sleeping buddy, then nothing had to change. Malfoy didn’t need to know that Harry was rapidly becoming obsessed with him, or that he spent most of his time in classes daydreaming about the two kisses they’d shared and imagining what might happen if they kissed again.

Merlin, he hoped that nobody in their year was secretly good at legilimency.

Harry glanced at the clock on the Common Room wall. Seven-thirty, time to get started. “Hey, everyone, if you could please sit,” he called out. “We’re going to go through this quickly and then take some questions, and then we can proceed with the _entertainment_ portion of our evening.” He grinned as everyone settled into chairs and couches and whooped at the mention of the party that was to follow.

A wave of fondness rushed over Harry as he looked out at his classmates. He was proud of them, for coming. Even just for returning to Hogwarts this year after everything that had happened. Even Katie Bell, who’d been in the year above them, had come back to finish up her studies with them. They’d all gone through so much, separately and together, yet here they were, trying to improve Hogwarts before they left it for good. They were all in good spirits tonight, he could tell, by the way they all clustered together, crowding onto couches and onto the floor, sitting with new friends and old, grinning and cat-calling.

Hermione and Malfoy came to join Harry at the front of the room. Harry began by giving a brief account of what had prompted him to start SASS this week, and why he thought it was important. Hermione went into the different facets of the campaign and their strategy, and finally, Malfoy talked about the next step, which was introducing the organization to the other classes, one by one.

They’d decided that inviting one year at a time would be a good way to get students to start thinking of themselves as part of a class rather than a house. Next week, they’d scheduled meetings with first through seventh years, all at different times, all in the Eighth-Year Common Room. McGonagall gave them permission to invite the other years into their Common Room so long as they had a professor in attendance. McGonagall herself had agreed to sit in with the first and second years, and Professor Flitwick and Professor Sprout were covering the rest.

Finally, they were done, and opened the floor to questions. Hannah Abbott’s hand shot up. “How will students be organized housing-wise?”

“We were thinking by year, probably groups of two years in one living space, so that every year would live sometimes with the year ahead of them, and sometimes with the year behind them. They’d get to know all the students around their age that way,” Harry explained. “And they’d always be housed with their own class.”

Ron, who’d already asked Harry this question but was exceedingly concerned about it, asked a question about how Quidditch teams would be formed. They’d not found a perfect solution for this, honestly. Harry explained some of the options, such as a lottery system, or open tryouts. “And one thing we’ve concluded is that Hogwarts should have a school-wide team that competes against other schools. On the continent, they have the WSL, or the Wizarding School League, and we are looking into the possibility of joining." He saw people's skepticism turn to excitement here. It _was_ rather exciting, the notion of being part of a real league. "We’d still have the different teams here at school, of course, but in my mind, those would become more of a rec league. The all-school team would be the competitive team. We’d have a single mascot, school colors instead of house colors, and so on.”

“What would the colors and mascot be?” asked Katie Bell.

“We don’t know,” explained Malfoy. “That could be something the students could vote on, certainly. We could make it into a contest of sorts, where students could offer up ideas and then everyone could vote on their favorite. Or we could allow the Alumni Association to come up with something, which they might appreciate.”

There were a couple more questions, and then everyone seemed antsy to start in on the party. “Before we wrap up,” Hermione said, stepping forward. “We’d like to gauge your level of interest. Please don’t be afraid to say that you disagree with this, or that you have doubts. That’s okay. We’d just like to know.” She looked out over the room. “Show of hands, then, please. Raise them if you are interested in becoming a SASS member or supporter.”

Hands flew up immediately, then more and more. Harry glanced around. Every single student had their hand raised. Every single one. He whistled under his breath. “Alright, well. Guess we have our answer!” Everyone laughed. “We’re done, then. Time for the good part. We’ve got lots of food and drink in the library, thanks to Draco, and some, er… _adult_ beverages available in Hermione’s and Pansy’s room for those who’re interested.” There were some cheers and whistles at this. Harry had been utterly shocked when Hermione informed him that she and Pansy were going to be responsible for procuring whiskey and wine.

Everyone split up for a while, nabbing food and butterbeer, and/or a cup of firewhiskey or elfwine. Harry, who felt like he was an unofficial party manager again, stuck to butterbeer, and he noticed Malfoy did, too. When he found himself in the library with Malfoy, he made his way over to the other boy. “Cheers,” he said, holding up his butterbeer. They clinked cups and Harry was pleased to see how happy Malfoy looked. “That went rather well, don’t you think?”

“ _Rather_ well? It was a complete success, by every measure. You did a wonderful job explaining things, and everyone was excited, like, legitimately. And then every single one of them decided to support us. It’s incredible, Potter! Merlin, I can’t believe it, honestly. I think our year being fully unified on this will be a selling point. Before this year, half of us couldn't stand each other! And now, after not even a full year together, we’ve done this. It proves our point perfectly.”

Harry supposed that it did, and he grinned.

Hermione came racing over to them with a cup of firewhiskey punch and grabbed Harry and Malfoy, both, and pulled them into a hug. “Great job, you two. This is going to happen. I can _feel_ it!”

“I think that might be the firewhiskey you’re feeling, Hermione,” Malfoy drawled. Hermione smacked at him good-naturedly.

The next hour or so passed quickly. Ernie whispered to Harry that he was going to ask Daphne if she wanted to go to Hogsmede with him the next day, and then, later, when he was sitting on one of the couches with Daphne, he caught Harry’s eye and gave him a grin and a thumbs up. Dean and Seamus brought out a deck of cards and a few people started playing some game that involved lots of drinking. Hannah put on some music and she and Mandy and Pavarti and Katie Bell started dancing. Just when it appeared that none of the boys were brave enough to join them, Neville jumped in and spun Mandy around, making her giggle, and then danced like such a goof that a few other guys, who must've decided that at least they'd look better than Neville, began dancing, too.

Harry had a bizarre moment where he saw Neville dancing like a madman and having way too much fun, and, at the same time, saw him as he had been in front of the school at the Battle of Hogwarts, standing up to Voldemort when no one else would, when they all though Harry was dead. It was disconcerting, to be seeing two Neville’s at once, and he had trouble shaking it, but then Pansy came over and pinched Harry’s arse and it was over.

“Harry, love, I want you to know that I deeply resent this sleep experiment of yours,” she said.

He burst out laughing. “What? Why?”

“Because if Draco’s in your bed every night, then where does that leave me?” She smirked at him with her pretty mouth.

“Erm, oh,” Harry said, flushing. He honestly hadn’t thought much about Pansy the past week. Not that he didn’t still feel all tingly when he thought about their night together, but it was more that Malfoy was occupying all of the space in his brain.

“Oh, it’s alright,” Pansy said, patting his shoulder. “Draco was having a terrible time of it, and I’m sure you were, too. I was quite worried, to tell you the truth. He just always seemed so tired, and…well, not quite himself. He seems a lot better since you took up with him.”

“I’m not, you know, _opposed_ to…you know. It’s just that this _has_ been helping a lot, so I don’t want to mess it up.”

“Understood, darling. Maybe we can arrange a daytime tryst.”

“Uh, okay? Yes? That could work?”

She snorted and shook her head. “It’s amazing. How are you like this in conversation, and like _that_ in bed?”

“Erm, I’m more of a doer, I ‘spose,” he said.

That brought out a full, tinkling giggle. “That you are,” she said, pressing a glossy kiss into Harry’s cheek, and then glided away, leaving Harry sniffing at the trail of rose-scented perfume that lingered in the wake of her.

An hour later and things were winding down a bit. A few people had gone to bed, and others had moved to the couches and floor to talk quietly. “We need to liven this party up,” said Parvati, sidling up to Harry. “It’s only eleven. Isn’t that your job, Mr. Party Manager?”

“My job?” cried Harry. “Merlin, I hope not.”

“We should get everyone playing a game of some sort.”

“A game?” Harry asked, wracking his brain. “Like Exploding Snap?”

Pavarti looked at him like he was the gittiest git she’d ever encountered. “No, Harry,” she said, addressing him like you would a toddler. “Not Exploding Snap. Something _fun_ , something _racy_. Like…oh! We should play spin-the-bottle!”

He looked around the room. “I dunno if people would want to do that.”

“Oh, they will!” Parvati said. “You’ve just got to give them a little nudge in the right direction.”

“You’re telling me I’ve got to suggest this?”

Parvati nodded. “Of course. You’re the party manager.”

Harry groaned and tipped his head back. “Ugh, everyone’s going to think I’m a pervert who just wants to get snogged. You’ve got to help.”

“Oh, fine,” said Parvati, as though she were sticking her neck out for Harry, which she _wasn’t_ , since this was her stupid idea. She put two fingers into her mouth and let out a piercing whistle that stopped conversation immediately. “Hey everybody! Harry had an idea!”

“It wasn’t my idea!” Harry cried.

“Harry wants to play spin-the-bottle!” Parvati shouted.

“It was Parvati’s idea! Not mine!”

“Oi! Harry, you trying to snog me?” called Ron, laughing. He was sitting with his back up against the couch, below Hermione, leaning against her legs.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Harry muttered.

“Poor Harry, he’s really hard up for a snog! Somebody needs to take pity on him and give him a smooch!” cried Seamus.

“I hate you all,” Harry moaned.

Despite the rough start, most people seemed very enthusiastic about spin-the-bottle. There were only about twenty of them still up, so they piled into the library and moved all the furniture against the wall so they could sit in a big circle on the floor. They’d gone through a few bottles of firewhiskey already, so they used one of the empties, and Hermione put a quick spell on it that protected it from magic so that nobody could stop it on purpose while they played.

“You’re seriously going to kiss other blokes?” Ron was asking her, looking reddish.

“Of course. Or girls. Whoever I land on,” said Hermoine.

“Oh, girls?” asked Ron, perking up.

Malfoy was on the other side of the circle, almost directly across from Harry. He was being rather quiet, leaning back on his arms and taking in the conversation around him. Harry stood up and squeezed in next to him before he could think better of it, sitting between him and Padma. “It wasn’t my idea,” Harry said by way of greeting.

Malfoy chucked. “Sure,” he said, nudging him. “I totally believe you.”

“Ugh, you prat. You’re supposed to be my friend,” Harry said.

“Yes, but unfortunately for you, I love laughing at my friends,” Malfoy said. “So, Potter. Who’re you looking to kiss?”

 _You_ , Harry didn’t say. “Whoever,” he said, shrugging. “Anyone. I don’t care.”

“Mm, that’s a dangerous starting point,” Malfoy said, arching a brow.

“Shhh! Let’s get started!” cried Parvati, standing up on one side of the circle. Everybody quieted down and watched as Parvati sent the bottle spinning. It landed on Pansy and Harry laughed. 

“Snog her, snog her!” Padma and Hannah chanted.

Ron looked much less upset and was watching with so much interest that Hermione had to elbow him. Parvati crawled over to Pansy looking determined, and then proceeded to kiss her soundly, with tongue, and Harry felt the collective level of horniness shoot through the roof.

“Ow ow!” cried Hannah.

Padma and Pansy pulled away, both of them looking quite pleased. Pansy spun. It went around and around, until it finally landed on Daphne. “Oh, this is hardly even a challenge,” Pansy muttered. “Daph and I have been snogging forever.” She turned to Daphne, who was sitting two places away from her. Ernie, who was between them, watched with his mouth open as they kissed, and then turned a very vibrant shade of red.

Daphne spun now, landing on Ron. She made her way over to him and looked at Hermione for a moment. “Sorry,” she said, and then proceeded to give him a very chaste, very brief kiss on the mouth. Hermione looked relieved, and Ron _tried_ to look relieved, but didn’t quite manage. Ron’s spin landed on Padma, and they gave the crowd another very tame kiss, since both of them were in relationships. “Boo!” cried Pansy. “I expect tongue next time!”

Padma, laughing, spun, and it landed on Harry. “Uh-oh, Blaise! Harry’s quite a good kisser!” cried Daphne.

“Oh, I kissed Harry last Friday. No big deal,” said Padma as she approached. She kissed him softly for a moment, no tongue, but not quite so tame as the last couple of kisses. “A _little_ less boring,” Pansy declared when they were done.

Harry spun and landed on Hermione. “Oh, Merlin,” he said, laughing. He made his way over to Hermione and they were both giggling like mad. “Sorry, mate,” he said to Ron. “And sorry to you, too, ‘Moine.” He gave her the sort of kiss he’d give his grandmother (if he had one). There was no other way to do it, not with Hermione, no matter what Pansy said. Hermione spun and got Dean.

Dean surprised everyone by pulling her a bit closer when she kissed him, and sticking up his middle finger at Ron behind her back.

“You fucker!” cried Ron, although he was laughing. When Hermione went back to sit next to Ron, she was very serious and very pink.

Dean gave it a good spin, and it went around and around, finally landing on Seamus. It was the first pair of boys to kiss, and all the girls started hooting and cheering. Dean shrugged like it was no big deal, but Harry noticed that Seamus looked distinctly uncomfortable.

Dean scooted over to Seamus and licked his lips, hesitating. “Oh, just get it over with already, you git,” said Seamus.

Dean leaned forward and kissed Seamus softly, no tongue, but then after a moment, something changed. You could feel it, literally, in the air, a sort of charge that swept over them. Harry watched, astounded, as Dean’s hand slid up into Seamus’s hair, and Seamus’s hand went to Dean’s arm. Dean tilted his head to the side and then all of a sudden there _was_ tongue, and lots of it, and then Pansy cried, “Hot!” and then everyone started giggling.

Harry couldn’t tear his eyes away from Seamus and Dean. Dean was blinking rapidly, and then he stood and stomped out of the room, and Seamus looked like he might burst into tears. “Oh, shit,” Harry said under his breath.

“Go talk to him, maybe,” whispered Malfoy. “Seamus isn’t going to, I guarantee it.”

Seamus seemed to have reigned in his emotions, and was smiling, and if Harry hadn’t known better, he’d have thought he was fine.

“You must be some kisser,” Pansy said to Seamus, though even she looked a little uncertain now. Seamus spun the bottle and landed on Mandy, and stalked over to her with purpose, and kissed her deeply, with plenty of tongue, and people cheered and Mandy grinned. Only when he returned to his spot, and Mandy spun again, taking the attention off of him, he didn’t look proud of himself. He just looked sad.

“What do I say?” Harry whispered to Malfoy.

Malfoy shrugged, his gray eyes meeting Harry’s. Harry wanted to brush away the lock of hair that was falling in his eyes. “Just ask him if he wants to talk. He might not, just…you know, be there if he does.”

Harry stood and slipped out, making his way to Dean’s room. He and Dean hadn’t talked as much lately, not since he’d started dating Ginny, but they were still friends. He knocked softly.

“Yeah?” came a voice.

Dean looked anxious when Harry opened the door. “Oh, hey Harry,” he said, relaxing.

“Hey,” Harry said. He sat down on the other end of the bed and thought about what to say. He had no idea, was the problem. “Are you okay?” he finally settled on.

“Yeah, sure. I’m, ah. Not feeling great. Stomach.”

“Dean,” he said, shooting him a look. “Look, if you’re upset because of Ginny or whatever, I wouldn’t worry about it. It’s spin-the-bottle. No big deal. Ginny won’t care.”

“No, that’s not – Ginny and I broke up. Yesterday.”

“Oh,” said Harry, not expecting that. “Why?”

“It just didn’t feel the same, like, I don’t know. Neither one of us was all that into it, it turned out, so we just sort of mutually ended it. Think she’s still hung up on you, to be honest,” he said, looking at Harry. “And I – it just wasn’t the same as last time. I didn't feel as mad about her as I used to.”

Harry didn’t let himself think too long on the notion that Ginny was still into him. He didn’t have room for that right now. “So, if not that, then what? Why did you get upset?”

Dean looked very studiously at his comforter, picking at some of the stitching. “Dunno,” he said, shrugging. “It was a bit weird. Because I’m not, you know…I’m not _gay_ , or anything.”

“I wouldn’t care if you were,” said Harry.

“Yeah, but I’m not. I’ve never been attracted to a bloke or anything, not ever. I don’t know what happened out there. I don’t know why I did that.”

“Because you wanted to?”

Dean looked sharply at Harry. “But that doesn’t make sense. Why would I want to if I’m not gay?”

“Well…” Harry had no idea. He should probably not offer any potential explanations. But, the words were coming out before he could stop them. “Maybe you’re not gay, generally. But maybe Seamus is an exception.”

Dean frowned. “Like I’m just gay for Seamus? That’s not a thing, is it?”

Harry shrugged. “Dunno. But, it doesn’t have to be a thing for anyone else. What matters is how you feel. You’re allowed to feel however you want.”

“I know you know Seamus is gay,” Dean said. “He told me he told you.”

“Yeah,” Harry said. “But that’s not you. That’s Seamus. How do _you_ feel?”

Dean stared off across the room. “I think I might have feelings for Seamus. But I honestly don’t understand how or why. Because I’m not just saying this, Harry. I’ve never, _ever_ , been interested in any bloke before. Even now, thinking of kissing anybody else, like you, or Zabini, or whoever, it feels, like, kind of gross? But not Seamus. That doesn’t feel gross.”

“Well. It's okay to feel like that. You're allowed. I would be careful, though, because it’s Seamus, and I would hate to see you guys get into a fight over…all this.”

Dean's brown eyes met Harry's for a moment. “Okay, so then...what am I supposed to do?”

“Talk to him,” Harry said. “Be honest with him, about everything. About why it feels strange, about what you’re afraid of. Just tell him. He’s your best friend, Dean. You two owe it to one another to be honest.”

“Yeah. Yeah, we do,” Dean said, nodding, and then got quiet for a moment “Would you ask him to come in here to talk to me?" he said, looking back over at Harry. "I’m…I’m kind of too embarrassed to go back out there.”

“Because people saw you kiss Seamus?” Harry said. That wasn’t a good sign, if Dean was embarrassed by that.

“No, because I ran. I ran off like a total twit.”

“Oh,” Harry said, chuckling. “I s’pose you did. That was a bit twitty, mate.”

“I know,” said Dean, smiling wryly.

“Sure,” Harry said. “Yeah, I’ll go get him.”

“Thanks,” Dean said. “Really, thank you, Harry. For talking.”

“Course,” Harry said. If you couldn’t help your friends when they needed you, what good were you?

He hurried back to the library, where Blaise was lip-locked with Hannah. It looked rather hot, and Padma was looking distinctly displeased. “Dean’s in his room. He wants to talk to you if you’re willing,” he whispered to Seamus. “He’s embarrassed that he ran off, but he wants to talk.”

Seamus looked like he was having an anxiety attack. “Oh. Okay. Um. _Shit_. What the hell am I supposed to say, Harry?” he whispered. “Should I be apologizing?”

“You definitely don’t need to apologize. I’d say, just let him talk. It’s not bad, I promise. He’ll explain. I think he’s…confused.”

Seamus nodded. “Alright.” He took a deep breath, and then stood and hurried out of the room.

Harry took his place next to Malfoy. “All good?” whispered Malfoy.

“I hope so,” said Harry. “Did I miss any good snogs?”

“Oh, you did. Parvati and Pansy had round two, and Pavarti literally straddled her lap. And then Daphne got Ernie, and let me just say…I think it’s safe to assume they’re going to Hogsmede together tomorrow. Unless they stay back here to fuck, which is also a distinct possibility judging by the way they kissed.”

Harry barked out a laugh and covered his mouth with his hands to smother it. “Oh, shit, no way. That’s brilliant.”

“Yeah, good for them, eh?”

“Yeah.”

Hannah was spinning now, and she landed on Harry. Harry’d always found her a bit pretty, if high-strung. She seemed kind of drunk right now, though. She was grinning at Harry and crawling towards him rather seductively. Uh-oh.

Her mouth was soft and full, and she tasted like peppermint gum. She wrapped her arms tightly around him and threw herself into it. Harry wondered if she and Justin had broken up, or whether they would break up after tonight. Because girls who were happily in a relationship didn’t kiss like this, Harry guessed.

She finally pulled away and gave Harry’s shirt a little playful tug and then sat back down in her spot. Harry felt rather hot. And his cock was hard. God, being a bloke was so embarrassing sometimes. He adjusted himself and spun.

 _Please land on Malfoy, please land on Malfoy_ , he found himself thinking. But then, he realized that Malfoy may not want to kiss him anymore, and maybe all he’d get was a sexless peck, and that would be so incredibly depressing. _Don’t land on Malfoy, don’t land on Malfoy_ , he amended.

Malfoy. Sweet Merlin, why did the universe hate him?

Harry watched Malfoy blink at the bottle, then up at Harry. Then, inexplicably, his gaze went past Harry, to where Padma was sitting. Why would he look at her, though? That made no sense.

Then he was looking back at Harry, smiling almost ruefully. “Well, here we go again, Potter,” he said, and Harry saw him swallow.

“I can just give you a quick peck,” Harry murmured. “It’s not a big deal.”

“Don’t you dare,” Malfoy said, one corner of his mouth going up. “I’d feel rejected.”

Harry huffed out a surprised laugh. “Okay,” he said.

The kiss was just as tingly and heart-stoppingly lovely as the first two were, although it was tempered by the fact that all their classmates were watching and Harry was totally sober. Malfoy tasted incredible, and Harry marveled at the fact that, at this point, it felt almost comfortable, kissing him. It was the third time, after all. Although…he was counting the last instance as one occurrence, but they’d kissed like mad. If you counted all those as separate kisses, he had no idea how many it would be. A hundred, maybe.

Malfoy had his hands in Harry’s hair and Harry had his hands down by Malfoy’s waist. It felt so good. He wanted nothing more than to drag Malfoy back to his room and continue this there, within the privacy of his curtains. Instead, with one final, quick, closed-mouth kiss, he pulled away. Malfoy didn’t move for half a second; he seemed frozen in place, which Harry took as a good sign. Then he blinked his eyes open and cleared his throat and looked away.

Malfoy’s gaze darted back over to Padma. What the fuck? Harry wondered. Had Malfoy talked to _Padma_ about him? He hadn’t even realized they were friends. Although all sorts of weird friendships were sprouting up all over their class, actually. Maybe Padma and Malfoy were another one.

Malfoy looked at the bottle. “I think I’m going to call it a night, all,” he said, rising.

Harry jumped up. “Me too,” he said. Malfoy was going to sleep in his room, after all.

“Suddenly overcome with exhaustion, are you?” Pansy asked, smirking. “You understand nobody believes that after watching that kiss.”

There were a few scattered giggles, and Ron’s eyebrows went up.

Harry rolled his eyes. “Suck it, Pansy. Goodnight everyone else.”

Pansy murmured something about, “How can I if Draco’s always in your bed,” and there was some more laughter, but Harry was already following Malfoy out of the room.

“Sweet Salazar, Potter, you didn’t have to be so bloody obvious,” Malfoy said.

Harry blinked. “But everyone knows. That I’m sleeping with you.”

“Well, if they _didn’t_ , they certainly do now. And probably suspect we’re doing more than that.” He seemed rather upset.

“I’m sorry,” Harry offered. “I didn’t think it was a big deal. I really didn’t.”

Malfoy sighed. “Of course you didn’t. Come on.”

Malfoy went to his room to get changed and Harry went to his. Malfoy came in wearing his blue and white striped pajamas, which were Harry’s favorites, because they were soft. Harry was wearing plaid bottoms and a white t-shirt. “I like these,” Harry said, tugging on Malfoy’s shirt.

Malfoy smiled. “They’re soft, aren’t they?”

“Very,” said Harry, nodding.

They piled into Harry’s bed, arranging themselves like usual.

“Harry,” said Malfoy, almost hesitantly.

“Mmm?” said Harry, yawning against Malfoy’s neck. He felt Malfoy shiver at it; it must’ve tickled.

“You know today’s the last day of our week,” he said.

Harry felt suddenly much more awake. “Oh. Because. Right. We agreed to a week.”

“I’m not saying we should stop. It’s obviously working. But I’m going to sleep in my room tomorrow night. Just because…well, I guess I want to see if I can sleep on my own.”

“Er, okay?” said Harry, hating it. Maybe someone would hide Malfoy’s bed before tomorrow night so that he couldn’t sleep there. Although if Harry hid Malfoy’s bed, Malfoy would probably know it was him right away.

Malfoy patted his hand. “Okay, good.”

Well, if that didn’t get Harry’s head spinning in very terrible directions. If Malfoy ditched him, what if he never slept again? What if the insomnia came back but even worse?

Had it been that neck kiss last night? Maybe that _had_ offended Malfoy, and this was the consequence. Ugh, Harry was so stupid. He always did things without thinking them through (yet another reason Malfoy was a perfect counterpoint to Harry; he _always_ thought _everything_ through).

“You’re all tensed up,” Malfoy said.

 _Yeah, because you’re ditching me_ , Harry thought. “Yeah,” he said.

“Roll over. I owe you anyway.”

Harry turned over and then Malfoy’s hand was in his hair. That was really nice, actually. He could picture Malfoy’s long, elegant fingers threading through his dark waves, and he liked how he imagined that looked. Like a black and white sketch. He felt himself start to relax once more.

One night would be fine. It was no big deal. Even if Harry didn’t sleep at all, he’d live.

Malfoy’s hand slipped up underneath Harry’s t-shirt, and Malfoy began scratching his back. Harry sighed and twisted his leg up with Malfoy’s. This felt heavenly.

“Potter, you’re like a puppy, rubbing up against my hand like that,” Malfoy said, laughing.

Harry grinned. He supposed he was.

A few more minutes of sublime scratching and then Malfoy wrapped his arm around Harry. It was different from their usual, in which Harry was the big spoon. Harry loved that, but for some reason, tonight, this felt perfect. Malfoy nuzzled at the nape of his neck for a moment, tickling it with, Harry suspected, his nose, and Harry felt his stomach muscles tighten, felt his cock jump in his pants. But then Malfoy stopped and yawned, and then rested his face against Harry’s t-shirt. “Night, Harry,” he said.

“Night, Draco,” said Harry.

Sweet Merlin, he was so utterly fucked.


	9. The Return of Ginny Weasley

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Draco does a stupid thing, then he assumes a stupid thing

Cause what you see you might not get  
And we can bet, so don't you get souped yet  
You're scheming on a thing, that's a mirage  
I'm trying to tell you now, it's sabotage

Whhhhhhyyyyyy

(Our backs are now against the wall)

Listen all 'a y'all, it's a sabotage

**_Sabotage_ ** **/ Beastie Boys**

* * *

Draco felt Potter fall asleep in his arms. He twitched once just as he was nodding off, and then his body went slack and soft. Draco breathed in the skin of Potter’s neck and asked himself why the fuck he’d just lied to him. He shouldn’t have. It wasn’t a full lie; there was truth in there, certainly. But it was not a full truth, either. He shouldn’t have done it. He should have told him everything. He had been totally honest with him before, on the Quidditch pitch. So why not now?

Because things were getting messier and messier. That was why. Despite Draco’s determination to not go around snogging Potter anymore (he didn't count tonight, no, he didn't, because it was a _game;_ it wasn't like he was fucking desperate to snog Potter, no, that was certainly not the case, no way, and if he enjoyed it a little too much, well, that wasn't his fault, now, was it?), whatever-the-fuck it was he was feeling kept getting worse. Draco had whiplash from the speed at which Potter had somehow managed to become one of the most important people in his life, had, somehow, become an absolute fixture in his days and in his nights.

He didn’t quite know how it had happened, truth be told. Draco usually wasn’t one for making new friends, and he certainly wasn’t one to open up the way he had with Potter. Merlin, Pansy had been his best friend since they’d both been in diapers, and he felt like he kept more from _her_.

Now, though, he was keeping a secret from Potter. And instead of making him feel relief, by putting some invisible distance between them, it just made him feel like shit. He half wanted to wake him up and confess. It was mad, absolutely mad. Potter was obviously making him lose his mind.

He’d told Potter that tomorrow he was planning to sleep alone because he wanted to see if he could. And that was partially true. Draco had stopped to worry, every now and then, about what would happen if Potter up and decided to get a girlfriend (or boyfriend)? Would Draco simply never sleep again? It was dangerous to depend on someone this way; you were just setting yourself up to get hurt. So it had occurred to him that he should try sleeping alone periodically to make sure he didn’t get _too_ used to their arrangement. Just in case.

Unfortunately, that had not been the only reason. The other reason was Blaise.

After lunch, Draco had gone to study in his room. He had hardly been there this week; it seemed almost unfamiliar to him. He was trying to plod through his Muggle Studies assignment when Blaise came in. “We need to talk,” Blaise said, and spelled the door locked.

Draco nodded, closing his book. “Yes, we do.”

“Draco, what the fuck’s going on with you and Potter?”

Draco sat there, blinking at him. That had not been what he’d expected to hear. “I don’t know that it’s any of your damn business, Blaise. You haven’t talked to me all bloody week, so you certainly don’t have any right to come in here demanding answers.”

Blaise sat down on his bed and rubbed his hands over his face. Draco knew those hands, knew how they felt on his skin, on his cock, inside of him. It almost hurt to look at them. “No, I’m sorry. You’re right. I’m just… _fuck_ , Draco. I hate it. I know it’s not fair, but I hate that you’re always with him, sleeping with him, and doing fuck-knows what else. I _hate_ it.”

“No, it’s not fair, goddamn you. You’re off fucking your girlfriend half the time. And, on that note, _you have a girlfriend_! You have some fucking nerve, saying any of this.” Draco was so angry that his voice was shaking with suppressed rage.

“Does that mean you are? Fucking him?”

Blaise didn't look angry, as he asked. He looked devastated. Wrecked. He looked so upset, in fact, that Draco felt his anger dissolving before it really had an opportunity to take root. He sighed. “No, I’m not…we’re not.”

Blaise was on him in a moment, kissing him, more passionately than Draco ever remembered. “I can’t stand the thought of it,” Blaise said as he worked his way down to Draco’s throat. “I can’t.”

Draco felt himself being pulled under, felt his eyes close, felt himself surrender to Blaise’s insistent touch. It felt so good to hear those words. They weren’t enough, he knew that, but they were something. Blaise _cared_. It wasn’t some transactional thing borne of boredom and general horniness. Blaise cared about him. Blaise wanted him. Blaise wanted him to himself, even.

“You’re an arsehole,” Draco moaned, as Blaise pulled at his trousers.

“I know, I know,” Blaise said. “I’m so sorry.”

He began sucking Draco off and it felt incredible. Draco had been walking around half-hard all week, desire just building and building and having nowhere to go. He’d needed this. He’d needed it so badly.

Blaise never did, but this time, he swallowed, and then he was back on Draco, kissing his mouth, and it was dirty, and heated, and all of it felt far more intimate than usual. After they’d kissed until their mouths were red and swollen, Blaise summoned lube, and Draco knew he was going to try to fuck him. And he also knew he wasn’t sure if he wanted that. And besides, “I have a meeting. With the SASS group. I’m going to be late.”

Blaise, to his credit, took it with grace, and returned to Draco’s mouth, kissing him slow and deep. “When, then? I need you, Draco. When?”

“Not tonight. Tonight’s the last night of this sleep thing with Potter.”

“Ugh, fucking Potter. Tomorrow night, then.”

“Yes, okay, tomorrow night.”

And now Draco had driven a…well, if not an outright lie, than an _untruth_ , between him and Harry, and it felt horrible. Maybe he’d tell him in the morning. It was only fair to tell him. He would, he decided, feeling suddenly more relaxed. He would tell him.

He didn’t tell him.

He meant to, he did. But then Saturday morning came, and all Potter’s roommates (and Dean, who had been with Seamus overnight, which was…an interesting development, to say the least) were sitting around in their pajamas talking about the party the night before. Draco didn’t get up and leave. He stayed for nearly a half hour, chatting, but there was no opportunity to speak to Potter alone.

Then Draco showered and went down for a late breakfast, and again, he was with Potter, but also with Hermione and Pansy and Weasley and Ernie and Daphne. So, no chance for any real conversation.

Then everyone was making Hogsmeade plans, and then all of a sudden, Draco’s breakfast group was running upstairs to grab cloaks and coats and hats and gloves and then heading out onto the snowy route to the little town. Snowballs were thrown, and everybody was having wonderful fun, and there was absolutely no fucking opportunity to talk to Potter. When they stopped for a drink, he decided. Then he’d pull Potter aside and talk to him. He would just say that he hadn’t been totally honest, and that he was meeting up with the fellow he’d spoken to Potter about before, and explain that he just wanted everything out in the open, didn’t want there to be secrets or misunderstandings between them.

They stopped first at Zonko’s, and then at Tomes and Scrolls, the little bookstore. Hermione and Pansy took for-fucking-ever in there, reading out loud from trashy romance novels, all of which showcased some musclebound wizard or another with his robes scandalously torn open on the cover. The muscle-y blokes didn't do much, just sort of licked their lips and flexed their pectoral muscles. In general, Pansy and Hermione were ridiculous together; they never stopped giggling. Draco thought at first it had been all the alcohol, but no. It was just them.

Finally, he thought they were headed to Hog’s Head, but then Ernie wanted to stop at the quill shop and Potter wanted to stop at the sporting goods store for broomstick wax. Draco was getting more nervous by the minute, and more keyed up, and he thought he might punch the next person to suggest a detour.

Thank Salazar, they finally finished their never-ending errands, and made their way to the Hog’s Head. They tromped into the dingy, dusty pub, expecting it to be mostly empty, since students tended to favor The Three Broomsticks, but all the eighth years as well as some of the younger set had decided to go against the grain today and it was packed. Draco sighed. The universe hated him -- it was quite apparent.

Aberforth served up rounds of cold lager and warmed-up mugs of whiskey, and Draco settled onto a bench next to Harry and Daphne. Draco couldn’t pay attention to what anybody was saying, he was feeling so nervous. “You okay?” Potter leaned over and whispered.

Draco met his bright, guileless eyes, and suddenly it seemed obvious, what he needed to do. He needed to tell Blaise to go fuck himself. He needed to be there for Potter tonight, because he cared about Potter, even if he wasn’t fucking him. He _cared_ about him, probably too much, and he cared whether Potter slept, and whether he was lying to Potter, and he just _cared_. “Yeah,” Draco said, nodding. “I am, I –”

“Harry, can I have a word?” said a voice behind them. They both whirled around to look at Ginevra Weasley, all bundled up and precious in a pink hat and gloves. It shouldn’t have worked for a redhead, but it did.

“Gin, hey,” said Potter, color staining his cheeks. “Um, yeah. Of course, where –”

“There’s a small table over there,” Ginevra said, pointing.

“Oh, brilliant, yeah,” he said, standing. He looked over at Draco. “I’ll be right back,” he said, squeezing his shoulder. Draco saw the sharp look Ginevra gave Potter for that. Draco simply nodded, turning back to the table.

Fortunately - or unfortunately, depending on how you looked at it - Draco could see the table perfectly well from his seat. He watched as Ginevra leaned forward, talking earnestly and animatedly about something, her brown eyes intent on Potter’s. Draco had never looked at her too closely before, but now that he did, he unhappily began to understand what everyone saw in her. She was really pretty, especially when she spoke, because her face was very expressive. Her hair, once she took off the pink hat, was silky and long and a brilliant, unyielding red. She had a sweet smattering of freckles over her nose, and warm brown eyes. She had a pert, pink little mouth and pink cheeks. She was adorable.

Draco hated her.

At first, Potter was sitting back in his seat, sort of distancing himself, but as they spoke, Draco noticed that he was leaning further and further in. It wasn’t a wholly pleasant conversation; Draco could see that quite clearly. They were obviously hashing out the demise of their relationship, because Ginevra, at one point, started getting teary-eyed, and Potter looked kind of angry and also concerned. Draco didn’t like it, he didn’t like _any_ of it.

He almost flipped the table when he saw Ginevra’s hand reach out to cover Harry’s. Instead, he drank down to the dregs of his lager and went up to the bar for another one and snuck glances at Potter and Ginevra from this new angle. He stomped back to the table, trying to decide who he hated most: himself or the Weasley strumpet. It was a toss-up.

Then, thankfully, _blessedly_ , Potter was coming back to the Eighth-Year table and Ginevra was returning to some of her classmates.

“Sorry,” he said, sliding in beside Draco. He cleared his throat. “I need a fucking drink.”

The relief Draco felt at hearing those words was immense. He laughed, feeling suddenly lighter. “Here,” he said, pushing his over. “What happened?”

Potter groaned. “Ugh, I don’t even fucking know. But we better talk about it later,” he nodded towards Weasley, who was looking at him curiously.

“Mm,” said Draco. “Right.”

“I will say it’s lucky that you picked tonight to sleep in your own room, though. Ginny wants to continue our ‘discussion’ tonight, which is probably going to be hours of absolute torture. Merlin, I cannot tell you how much I don’t want to have this talk with her.”

“Then don’t,” said Draco. _Don’t, and then I won’t see Blaise, and we’ll be together and it’ll all be okay._

Potter groaned again. “Oh, Circe help me, I have to. We were together too long, and we went through too much. I owe her this.”

“Didn’t _she_ break up with _you_?”

“Well, yeah. But she’s trying to, like, make amends.”

“Oh, Salazar,” said Draco, dread churning in his gut.

“Yeah. No shit.”

“Do you – do you think you’ll get back together?” Draco asked, and was terrified of the answer.

“What? Uh-uh, no way. I can’t imagine…no. She really fucking hurt me, and now just because she’s decided to break up with Dean...no, we’re not going to get back together.”

Draco heard what Potter was saying, and he knew that Potter believed it, but there was something that had been unsettling about the way he’d been looking at Ginevra. He was _hurt_ , that much was very clear, but that wasn’t the same thing as being _over her_.

No, it wasn’t the same thing at all.

There was nothing to be done for it. Potter would spend his evening with the Weaslette, and Draco would spend his with Blaise.

He went and ordered a drink. Firewhiskey this time. A double.


	10. Fissure

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry talks to Ginny and sleeps alone

Images of rapture  
Creep into me slowly  
As you're going to my head  
And my heart beats faster  
When you take me over  
Time and time and time again  
  
But it's just a sweet, sweet fantasy, baby  
When I close my eyes, you come and take me  
On and on and on, it's so deep in my daydreams  
But it's just a sweet, sweet fantasy, baby

 _**Fantasy** _ **/ Mariah Carey**

* * *

Harry said the password to the Fat Lady (it was “Busybody bunny”) and entered the Gryffindor Common Room. It looked like it always did: cozy and warm, comfortable and slightly frayed. It felt like home. He couldn’t go up to the girls' dormitories here, so Ginny was meeting him in the Common Room. He glanced up at the clock. She was four minutes late. He tried not to be annoyed.

A minute later, she came racing down the stairs. “Sorry, sorry,” she said, her red hair trailing behind her like a comet. “Carolyn just broke up with her boyfriend, and I had to talk to her for a minute.” Carolyn was one of Ginny’s roommates, and a bonafide drama queen.

“S’okay,” said Harry, shrugging. “Where do you want to go?”

Ginny glanced around, frowning. The Common Room was crowded. “We could go to the Room of Requirement, if you want.”

Harry hesitated. They’d gone there a number of times when they’d been together, always to make out in privacy. “Erm,” he said. But then, he couldn’t really think of any alternative besides his room, which wasn’t much better, given the centrality of the bed and everything. “Yeah, alright.”

Ginny nodded and stepped through the entrance into the hallway and waited for Harry to come out. “How’s the rest of your day been?” she asked. She seemed rather nervous, which was unusual for Gin. She may not have been that way when she was younger, but in the past year or so, Ginny had grown into one of the most confident, fearless people Harry’d ever encountered. It was one of the things he loved about her, before.

“Fine. Didn’t do much. Sat around with Draco and Ron and Hermione and Pansy.”

“Ah, right. Your new best friends, Draco and Pansy.”

“They are my good friends, yeah,” said Harry. They’d reached the Room of Requirement, and Harry stepped past the place on the wall where the door should be three times, and then the door itself appeared. He opened it, and found it looked almost exactly like the Gryffindor Common Room, except empty. He supposed he had been missing the place, especially since his breakup with Ginny, now that he didn't have a reason to visit.

“How creative,” Ginny said, looking around and giggling.

“That’s me, Mr. Creative,” Harry said, grinning. He sank down into one of the overstuffed couches and Ginny sat on the other end, with a safe cushion’s worth of distance between them. “So? Let’s have it, then. Tell me what you want to tell me.”

“Ugh, Harry, don’t be like that.”

“Like what?”

“All…brusque. Impersonal. Please?”

He sighed. He was being a bit of a dick, probably. But it was difficult to know how to act around your ex-girlfriend. “Sorry,” he said. “I don’t mean to be.”

“I know,” said Ginny. She looked him over, her warm brown eyes incredibly familiar. He knew all the freckles on her nose, had kissed them all many times. He loved her, still, even if he didn’t want to be with her. Harry had a sticky sort of heart; it didn’t let go of things quickly. “I wanted you to know how sorry I am,” she began.

“Yeah, you said that earlier today. I get it. You’re sorry you hurt me.”

“I am. And I’m sorry I took up with Dean so fast, too. I didn’t mean to, it just…I thought that if I had someone else, it would be easier, you know. To not be with you anymore.”

“Gin, I have to point this out: you’re the one who broke up with me. You don’t get to talk about how sad you were after we broke up, not when you’re the reason we did.”

She flinched, a little, at that. It didn't deter her from arguing the point, though. Ginny was a stubborn one. “I didn’t break up with you because I didn’t care about you. I still loved you. I just needed some distance. Things weren’t easy, with us. You must understand that, surely.”

“I understand it. I also understand that I would _never_ , _ever_ leave you when you needed me the most.”

“But that’s just it, Harry! It felt like you hardly even loved me anymore - you just _needed_ me. I was your _girlfriend_! Not your Mind Healer! Not your mother! You kept leaning on me and leaning on me and it’s not as though I didn’t have my own fucking problems! I lived through the same war as you did, and I lost people, too. I lost Fred –” Her voice broke here, and she looked quickly away, her red hair flashing as her head moved.

She was quiet for a moment, and then she turned back, looking calmer. “I didn’t have it in me to keep taking care of you. I needed you to fix yourself, to pull yourself up out of whatever dark hole you were in, so that I could be with you properly. So that we could have a normal fucking relationship.”

“Didn’t give me time, though, did you?” asked Harry. “Two weeks. You took up with Dean two weeks after you broke up with me.”

“I know,” she said, sighing. “That was stupid, I know that. I regret it more than I can say. Like I said, I just wanted to stop feeling sad, and to stop _missing_ you. And it didn’t work, anyway. I didn’t have feelings for Dean, not anymore. It was pointless, and I wish I’d never done it.”

Harry tried not to feel sympathy for her. He wasn’t sure she deserved it, not where this was concerned. And yet he couldn’t help it. She sounded lost, and sad, and angry with herself.

“Harry,” she said, fixing her brown eyes on his. “I still miss you. I miss what we had, and I miss spending time with you, and I miss kissing you, and I’m so sorry, I’m so so so sorry…”

“Gin,” he said. It would be very easy to kiss her right now. Part of him wanted to. He knew how she would taste, and how she would smell, like vanilla, and like the Burrow. He knew how she would feel in his arms, soft and hard in turns; her skin and her breasts soft and supple, the muscles of her legs and arms firm and toned. She wanted to kiss him, too. It was in her eyes, in the way she leaned towards him, pleading. He tucked a strand of her hair behind her ear, letting his fingers drag through the silky length of it. “I’m not going to pretend the last month didn’t happen. It _did_ happen, and even if you didn’t mean to do it, you hurt me a lot. I know you’re all mad about me being friends with Draco and Pansy, but honestly, if I hadn’t become friends with Draco, I don’t even know what I would be doing right now. I was a fucking mess, Gin. I couldn’t sleep, I could barely eat. My nightmares, when I did sleep, were getting worse and worse. I was crying all the time over you. Merlin, Draco pretty much saved my life.”

He considered, then, that he had merely transferred all of his neediness onto Draco, that he’d shifted the burden that was on Ginny over to someone else. But then he realized, Draco never acted like it was a burden. And really, Harry felt quite needed by Draco, too. It was different, for whatever reason. Harry had been dragging Ginny down into the dark with him, but Harry and Draco, somehow, didn’t pull each other down. Quite the opposite; they seemed to lift each other up.

Ginny was looking at him. “I heard all about your adventures, you know. That you fooled around with Parkinson. That you decided you’re bisexual.”

“Is that a problem?” Harry asked. Because if it was, he felt quite comfortable telling her they were done talking.

“No, it’s not. I have no problem with that, obviously. Charlie’s bisexual; you know I’ve never judged him for that. I was just…surprised. I wondered why you came to that conclusion. Did you mess around with Malfoy or something?”

Harry considered his answer. Malfoy was certainly the reason he’d realized he liked blokes. But it was not just that. Harry had looked back and realized he’d always been attracted to boys. Back in fourth year, he had been positively smitten with Cedric Diggory. He hadn’t called it that; no, he’d been convinced that it was something akin to hero worship, but now, looking back, he could see that he’d had a crush, plain and simple. And speaking of Charlie, Harry’d always crushed on him a bit, too. And again, he’d always cloaked it in feelings of admiration, but beneath, there had been attraction. And Draco, well. Harry wasn’t even trying to pretend it was anything other than infatuation. “I found myself feeling some things that made me look back at other things I’d felt, like, in the past, and I just…I realized. It’s always been there, I’ve always been attracted to boys and girls, but I just didn’t know what it was, before.”

Ginny nodded, looking like she wanted to ask more but refraining. “So you’re not going to get back together with me?”

“No. Not now. Maybe not ever, I don’t know. I’m not mad at you anymore or anything. It’s more that I don’t trust you entirely. I’d be afraid to give you my heart again.”

Suddenly, Ginny seemed to crumple, collapsing in on herself. She buried her face in her hands and began to sob.

“Oh, shit. Hey, don’t…” Harry said, panicking. “It’s okay.”

“Maybe y-you should g-go,” she managed.

“No, I’m not going to leave when you’re…” Shit. He couldn’t help it; he pulled her into a hug. She remained rigid for a moment or two, hiding her face from him, and then she relaxed into him, burying her face in his chest, soaking his jumper with her tears.

“Harry, I’m so sorry. I’m so sorry,” she said.

“I know, Gin. Look, it’s all fine, okay?”

“C-can we still be friends? I don’t know what I’ll do if I don’t have you in my life at a-a-all.”

“Of course, _god_ , of course. We’re always going to be friends. I love you, Ginny. You’re one of my…my _people_ , and that’s never going to change.”

She was calming down a bit, her sobs easing into the occasional shuddering gasp. “Okay,” she said. “Okay. I love you too, and I will forever, even if we never ever get back together. I’ll always love you, Harry. I’ll always care about you forever…”

“I know,” he said, rocking her a little, trying to get her from going back into hysterics. “Of course I know that.”

She finally calmed down after a couple more crying jags, and by the time they finished, Harry felt absolutely exhausted but also hopeful. He did love Ginny, and he hated being at odds with her. If they could find a way to be friends, it would be such a relief. He did miss her terribly. He did want her in his life.

He climbed into bed, trying not to think about how empty it felt. Trying not to sniff at the lingering scent of mint and citrus. All he could think about was running to Malfoy’s room. He considered how Malfoy would react if Harry showed up. He’d be mad, probably. Frustrated with Harry for not sticking to this simple agreement. No, he couldn’t go to Malfoy’s room. No matter how much he wanted to.

He tried to think about Ginny, instead, about how good it would be to be her friend. But his memories of her were all tied up with love, with skin and touch and sensation, and soon he found himself remembering how it felt to be lying naked with her, their bodies lined up. Both of them had been so inexperienced, but it hadn’t mattered. They’d laughed as they’d learned new things about one another, and Ginny had teased him for how he always wanted to sit back and look at her. But of course he did; she was beautiful.

He thought about the time they’d almost had sex. There had been one time in particular, early on in the school year, when she’d been here, in his bed. She’d had her hand on his cock, and he’d had his fingers inside of her, and it felt so glorious in there, so warm and wet and perfect, and he’d been sliding his thumb over her nub and she’d been moaning and kissing him hotly. “I want to feel you inside of me,” she’d whispered, and he’d nearly come at the thought of it.

And then she’d climbed on top of him, and he’d looked at her small, perfect breasts, and at her taut stomach with its constellations of freckles, and he’d loved her so much he thought he might die. And then she’d slid over his cock, and he’d felt the slickness of her against him, back and forth, and then she’d shifted upwards, her eyes locked onto his, and started to push him inside of her. He’d wanted it, he’d wanted it so much, but they’d already been having some problems, and he wanted to work through them before they had sex. Because to him, for whatever reason, sex felt like a big deal.

“Not yet,” he whispered, bringing her mouth back down towards his. She’d seemed to understand, at least, and reluctantly agreed.

“It’ll be so incredible, though, Harry,” she’d whispered in his ear. “When we do.”

He’d pushed her back a tiny bit, just because he wanted to look at her, the way he always did. He took in her tousled hair and her sweet mouth and her beautiful freckles. “It will,” he agreed, tucking her hair behind her ear. “It’ll be perfect.”

Maybe he was being too hard on her. He had been a bit of a nightmare, really, to be with. Between his dark moods, where he could hardly bring himself to speak to anyone at all, and his crying jags, and his night terrors that sometimes resulted in him slapping her away or shouting at her, it must have been so trying. She’d dealt with a lot of it, too, especially around the beginning of the school year, when everything, for whatever reason, seemed especially difficult.

He thought again about what it had been like to have her warm, naked body on top of him. Merlin, it had been good. He considered wanking to the memory, but that felt wrong, somehow, and sort of sad.

 _Malfoy_ , he thought, and his brain shifted lightning-fast, to the Quidditch pitch, to Malfoy’s hot mouth underneath his, to Malfoy’s tongue entwined with his own. This memory held none of the heavy sadness that memories of Ginny did. It felt fresh, and new, and full of possibilities. Harry thought back on all the nights that he’d slept curled around Malfoy, and then let himself imagine what it would be like if he began slowly kissing along the nape of Malfoy’s neck, not small, closed-mouth kisses, but wet, open-mouthed ones, where he tasted Malfoy’s skin. He thought of what it would be like to slip off Malfoy’s blue and white pajama shirt, and then his trousers, what it would be like to feel all that pale skin against his own. He remembered how Malfoy’s cock had pressed against his own through their clothes, and imagined what it would be like if there had been no clothes, if there had just been skin and skin and skin, and fingers and mouths and throbbing cocks.

He closed his eyes and slipped his hand below the waistband of his pants, and began to skirt his fingertips over his cock. When he was nice and hard, he took himself in hand, moving his fist up and down slowly, thinking of Malfoy’s clever mouth, his eyes with their darker ring of gray encircling the lighter ring. He thought of Malfoy’s tongue and his cool, precise voice, and thought of how Malfoy’s hair felt between his fingers, and how incredible he smelled.

He came in no time at all, and it felt wonderful, almost too good, considering it was his own damn hand. But he was lost in the images behind his eyes, lost in pictures of what might be, maybe, someday.

Finally, afterward, it was close to three in the morning. And somehow, thanks to the fantastic wank, perhaps, he fell asleep.

He woke at seven. He was annoyed, too, since it was a Sunday, and breakfast was served on Sundays all morning and straight into lunchtime, so there was no real reason to get up. He tried to go back to sleep, but found himself too antsy, too wound up. He got up and made his way to the showers.

Afterward, as he was leaving, he ran into Malfoy. It was so good to see him; Harry’d missed him, which was really fucking pathetic, if you thought about it. It had only been, like, twelve hours. “Hi!” he exclaimed, wanting to throw himself into Malfoy’s arms. _Fucking chill out_ , he chided himself.

Malfoy looked rumpled and tired. But then mornings weren’t his thing, Harry knew. “Morning, Potter,” he said, not really meeting Harry’s eyes.

Harry didn’t like that, didn’t like the way it felt. “Want me to wait for you for breakfast?” he asked.

“Probably not,” Malfoy said. “I’ve got to get some work done. I might just grab something and bring it upstairs.”

“Oh, okay,” said Harry. “Erm, I could get it for you, if you want?”

Malfoy looked back towards his room. “No, Potter, that’s quite alright. I can get my own breakfast.”

Harry felt his heart clench in his chest. What was this? Why was Malfoy being so weird?

“Supper, though?” Malfoy said, finally meeting Harry’s eyes.

Harry felt a shock of relief run through him. “Yeah, that sounds good. Want to come get me when you’re heading down?”

Malfoy nodded, and turned towards the door.

“Hey, Malfoy,” said Harry. Malfoy turned around, an eyebrow raised. “Is everything alright?”

“Of course,” Malfoy said. “Why wouldn’t it be?”

Harry shrugged. “Don’t know.”

“Everything’s fine, Potter,” Malfoy said, smiling. “Stop worrying about me.”

“No thanks,” Harry said. “I like worrying about you.” He tried to smile.

Malfoy huffed a laugh. “Git,” he said.

“Arse.”

Malfoy walked into the showers, and Harry walked back to his room. Something felt off, broken, and Harry had no fucking clue what it was.

“Maybe he’s feeling weird about you having that talk with the Weasley girl,” Pansy said later that day when Harry went to go consult with her. She was painting her nails blood red. “It’s clear you two have… _some_ sort of feelings for one another, although I’ll be damned if I understand them. But you can see, can’t you, why it might bother him?”

Yes, Harry could. He couldn’t imagine what he’d feel like if Malfoy was having ‘a talk’ with an ex-boyfriend. Or that bloke he had been sleeping with. Or, _was_ sleeping with?

Wait.

Harry had forgotten about that, somehow.

“Pansy, is Malfoy still…is he still _involved_ with that guy?”

Pansy considered him, her hazel eyes sharp as tacks, before starting in on a second coat of polish. “I don’t know, to tell you the truth. He hasn’t talked to me about it in quite a while. It’s a shit situation, though, so I hope not. Draco deserves better.” She chewed on a corner of her red-painted lip. “If you’re concerned, you ought to ask him.”

Harry blinked. “No, I can’t.” He couldn’t, no way. “It’s not…we’re not, like, _romantically_ involved. We’re just friends. I have no right to ask him. In fact, it would probably be inappropriate if I did.”

Pansy rolled her eyes. “Potter, are you serious? Do you not have eyes? Do those big-arsed glasses not work or something?” She tsked. “You and Draco may not be officially involved, but _everyone_ knows that you fancy each other. Sweet Merlin, _Greg_ asked me the other day if you were Draco’s boyfriend. How is it possible that _Greg_ has figured this out, but you and Draco haven’t?”

“Erm, I don’t know?” Harry replied.

Pansy shook her head. “Worthless.” She held up her hand and cast a drying charm on her nails. “I guess I’ll have to handle this myself, hm?”

“What does that entail, exactly?” Harry asked, slightly frightened.

“I’ll do some snooping. Find out what’s going on with Draco.”

“Oh, yes, please,” Harry said. “Don’t tell him I asked you to, though, okay?”

Pansy huffed. “What do you take me for, an amateur? Fuck’s sake.”

“No, definitely not,” Harry said. Pansy might have been many things, but she was no amateur -- not, probably, in any aspect of life. “Your nails look really nice, by the way.”

She smiled, slow and mischievous. “Want to help me test them out? I could try digging them into your back, if you want.”

He giggled, and it sounded high and stupid. “Erm, maybe not right now.”

She laughed and patted his cheek affectionately. “I know. Draco, Draco, Draco. It’s all about Draco.”

He shrugged, cheeks coloring. “Kind of.”

“Potter, you’re a sap.”

“Yeah.”

Dinner was fine, and Draco seemed a bit more normal. Harry found himself slipping into jokester mode, trying everything in his power to make Draco laugh. It worked, sort of. It worked better on Ron, who was laughing so hard he choked on his potatoes. Draco didn’t laugh quite that hard, though. He certainly didn’t do any choking.

When Draco came tiptoeing into his room clutching a pillow later that night, Harry felt an enormous sense of relief. He kept himself, somehow, from jumping on top of Draco and snogging him silly, and instead, asked him if he wanted to be the little spoon or the big spoon that evening.

“Little spoon,” Draco said. “I need to be the little spoon tonight.”

“Okay,” said Harry, turning towards him. “Draco, are you sure you’re okay?” he didn’t want to press it, but he couldn’t stop himself. Something was obviously wrong, and he couldn’t stop thinking about it.

“I’m fine, Harry,” Draco said. He squeezed Harry’s hand.

Harry took a deep breath. “I missed you, you know. Last night. And today.”

Draco didn’t say anything for a long time, and Harry started to wonder if he’d fallen asleep. “I missed you, too. Quite a bit,” he said, finally.

Harry was so happy to hear it that he kissed Draco’s little pink birthmark. Oops. He’d known he was going to slip up and do that again.

Draco let out an enormous sigh and squeezed Harry’s hand, and then pulled it up to his mouth and kissed Harry’s knuckles gently. Harry’s heart leapt in his chest, and he pulled Draco closer and snuggled his face into the nape of Draco’s neck. “Goodnight, Harry,” Draco said.

“Goodnight,” Harry whispered, and proceeded to fall asleep immediately. He was tired, after all, from his night without Draco.


	11. Aparecium

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The SASS team gets wasted after a long week and Harry and Draco stumble into bed together.

Pink ribbon scars  
That never forget  
I tried so hard  
To cleanse these regrets  
My angel wings  
Were bruised and restrained  
My belly stings

 _**Today** _ **/** **Smashing Pumpkins**

* * *

Draco was trying to be two Dracos at once.

One Draco was the idiot who let Blaise shag him silly on Saturday night, then asked, fearfully, if Blaise would stay in his bed, and was thrilled, in quite a pathetic way, when Blaise agreed to it (it was the first time he ever had, and he insisted on setting an alarm, of course, for four in the morning so he could sneak back over to his own bed without anybody realizing). This Draco thought he might sleep, then. He wasn’t alone, not with Blaise snoring softly beside him, not with Blaise’s long legs wound up with his. A body was a body, surely. He had company; he would sleep. This Draco then proceeded to stay up all night, staring at his purple curtains and hating himself.

The other Draco was the mostly happy one who spent all his time with Harry Potter, who was making new friends left and right, and righting social wrongs. A Draco who spent his days busy and laughing, and curled up with Potter at night and slept like the dead.

It was surprisingly simple, as it turned out, to separate these two Dracos, to pretend like they had nothing to do with one another. They were quite different, after all. One was full of self-loathing and guilt and neediness, and lived to be fucked by someone who gave him only the tiniest crumbs of affection. The other was a nearly whole, normal person.

On Friday afternoon, Draco, Hermoine, Harry, Mandy, and Ernie wrapped up their final student presentation. This one had been given to first years, who seemed incredibly small. Had they all been that young, once? It seemed impossible.

It had been a hectic week, full of classes and finishing up a Charms essay and at least one presentation every day. Draco was relieved to be done with this part of the SASS campaign.

It had gone very well, though. It occurred to him, as they brought class after class into the Eighth-Year Common Room, how strange it was that these students rarely got together as a group. Despite the houses, it seemed that _some_ effort should have been made to allow them to get to know one another, but there had been none at all. There were scattered inter-house friendships within some of the years, although those seemed few and far between, but in others, there were hardly any. They might have been complete strangers sitting there, rather than classmates.

Without exception, every time they presented their ideas to a new class, the students began to look at one another curiously, considering, perhaps for the first time, that they might find better friends in other houses, or a romantic interest in another house, or just have the bloody option of enjoying more than a dozen other people’s company. By the time Draco and the others finished speaking, taking care to explain the phenomenon that had occurred within their class that year, there were very few students who weren’t supportive of abolishing the houses.

Draco noted, with interest, that the few holdouts tended to be Gryffindors and Slytherins, and he supposed that was due mostly to parental influence. Both houses had very proud alumni bases, and had made enemies of the other -- for decades, at this point (the feud between Gryffindor and Slytherin was not a new one). It made sense that a few former students would pass on their biases to their children, who were almost always placed into the same house -- because they were able to influence the hat with their desires, of course. 

Draco was a perfect example of this. His entire life, his parents had sung the praises of Slytherin House, and as a result, he sat down on the stool at the sorting ceremony and thought, “Slytherin, Slytherin, Slytherin, please, put me in Slytherin.” Of course he wasn’t going to end up anywhere else.

The whole thing was a vicious cycle. The sorting hat, now that he thought on it, seemed to put a wholly inappropriate emphasis on these familial biases. He thought that maybe the sorting hat deserved to be set on fire.

Draco knew, as Harry finished answering the last question, that the next step in their campaign – presenting their ideas to the faculty and trying to recruit them – was going to be a lot more challenging. And then the last part – reaching out to alumni – would be more difficult still. But he also felt like they were ready for it. They’d managed to unite nearly the whole school behind SASS. It wasn’t a foregone conclusion – to be sure, they might still fail -- but Draco thought they stood a real chance at making actual change.

The five of them stayed after, going over their plans for faculty outreach. They had requested, during the presentations, that students with a particularly good relationship with one of the professors volunteer to write that professor a letter about the campaign, asking them to consider becoming a member of SASS. So far, there was only one staff member – the new Muggle Studies professor, Darwin Davies (who Draco knew to be incredibly long-winded and somehow even more boring than Professor Binns) – who wouldn’t be receiving at least three or four letters. Draco and Ernie, who were both taking Muggle Studies this year, were going to be writing to him to make up the difference.

“I think we deserve a drink,” Ernie declared when they were finally finished.

“We’ve been working our arses off this week,” agreed Mandy. Draco had grown to respect Mandy a lot during this whole thing. She was a fantastic problem-solver, and even better at keeping them on track then Hermione. Hermione was almost too smart, sometimes, and would lead them down theoretical or philosophical tangents, while Mandy had a more practical sort of intelligence that lent itself perfectly to strategy. She also loved to tell dirty jokes, which made her go up a few notches in Draco’s book.

“Oi!” Potter exclaimed, laughing. “ _SASS_ has been kicking my _ass_.”

“Oh, Harry,” Hermione winced. “So bad.”

“It wasn’t _that_ bad,” he protested, looking to Draco.

“Mm, no, it was even worse,” Draco said, getting a smack in return. “By the way, I’ve got a bottle of gin in my room. Muggle gin.”

“ _Muggle_ gin?” asked Potter, his eyebrows shooting up into his fringe.

“It tastes wonderful,” Draco protested. “Haven’t you ever heard of a gin and tonic?”

“Do you have tonic water?” Ernie asked.

“Well, no,” Draco admitted. “But I bet the kitchen does.”

Mandy grinned. “Ooh, get some limes, too, if they’ve got them. Or lemons. We can drink fancy drinks, since we’re on a fancy political committee.”

“Yes, alright,” Draco said, looking around. “Tonic water and lime. I’m sure that won’t be obvious at all.”

“Eh, fuck ‘em,” Ernie said. “We’re eighteen – legally, we’re adults, goddamnit.”

Draco grinned. “Okay, fine, I’ll run down there. Harry, would you grab the gin? It’s in my trunk. I don’t think it’s locked at the moment.”

Harry nodded. “Yessir.”

Not too long afterward, they were sealing themselves up in the library with big, icy glasses full of gin and tonic and a spritz of lime juice, and they were all exclaiming how mature they were, and fancy. Ernie had fetched a deck of cards, so they were playing some game Potter and Mandy knew called Waterfall, the sole purpose of which seemed to be getting pissed.

The more they drank, the more ridiculous the game became. Kings meant you had to make up a rule, and Mandy made up a rule that every time you had to drink, you first had to stand up and pretend to hump the table, which was really fucking embarrassing (less so, over time), and also really funny. And then there was Queens, where everybody had to speak to one another in questions, and at some point, Harry and Draco kept going, on and on and on, until finally they both gave up and chugged the rest of their glasses, because it seemed to make sense at the time, for some reason, even though they’d both sort of won. Draco drew a Jack and got to be Thumb Master for ages, and he decided being Thumb Master was the best gig in the universe, because he kept getting to point and shout ‘drink!’ at people who were slow.

The five of them tore through Draco’s gin in no time at all, and a very tipsy Ernie agreed to go get a bottle of something called vodka that Draco hadn’t ever tried. It tasted like shit, honestly, but they’d run out of tonic and were drinking it straight, which might have been the reason.

Hermione managed to remain too clever even while drunk, and she kept dominating rhymes and categories, which was irritating the hell out of Draco. “Hermione!” he yelled. “Stop being so smart! You’re pissed, for Merlin’s sake! Surely that has _some_ impact on you!”

She started giggling.

“It definitely makes her laugh more,” Potter offered, which wasn’t even that funny, but Hermione apparently thought it was, because she began laughing so hard that she fell off of her chair and managed to pull Mandy down with her, and then the two of them just stayed on the floor.

Potter leapt off his chair and tugged at Draco’s hand, dragging him over to where the girls were piled up. They spread out, sticking their heads close to Mandy and Hermione’s heads, and Draco couldn’t help but laugh at Hermione, who was still giggling helplessly.

“Oi! Ernie! Get down here!” Potter yelled, and sure enough, Ernie came stumbling over and collapsed on the other side of Potter, so that all their heads were clustered together, their legs fanning outward.

Hermione whipped out her wand and pointed it at the plain ceiling of the library, and soon, they were looking at a very active night sky, with shooting stars and constellations that Draco had never seen before. It looked incredibly real.

“That’s brilliant,” Draco said, gazing up at all of the tiny, moving pieces.

Hermione looked over at him. “Thanks,” she said, smiling. “I worked on it this summer, just for fun. It’s a version of the one used in the Great Hall, though not as elaborate, of course.”

Draco knew a good spell, too. He managed to sit up and pull his wand off the table. “ _Sonos nocte_ ,” he said, with a flick of his wrist. Suddenly the sounds of crickets chirruping and owls hooting on occasion filled the room.

“Oh, wow,” Potter whispered, closing his eyes.

“Lovely,” agreed Hermione.

They were all silent for a moment, staring up at the pretend sky and listening to the night sounds all around them.

“Hey, what are you guys doing next year?” Mandy asked. Her finger was up in the air, tracing one of the constellations.

Draco had talked about this with Potter already, but he realized he had no idea about the others.

“I’m going to work at the Wizarding Stock Exchange with my father,” said Ernie. “There’s never been any doubt about that.” He sounded unhappy about this.

“Do you not want to?” asked Draco before he could check himself. The alcohol had apparently vanished his filter. He hoped that his question hadn’t been too nosy.

“No, I don’t want to. It’s boring as hell. I’ve gone to work with him plenty, so I know. Last summer, he had me intern there. It fucking sucks. I could give two shits about trading.”

“What would you do?” asked Hermione. “If you weren’t doing that?”

“Uh,” Ernie said. “Well. Okay, but it’s…I know it’s stupid, alright? But I think I’d want to be an architect. Not, like, a muggle architect. But one for magical houses. They design the house, right, but they also weave in the spells and protections, and it seems so fascinating, balancing all of that. Because the design affects the magic, you see. It all has to work together. Anyway. My dad’s younger brother is one, and my dad always calls him a waster, because it doesn’t make much money or anything. Demand isn’t very high, I think. But still. If I could pick, that’s what I’d do.”

“That sounds incredible,” Hermione said. “I mean, really. You should do that. Fuck trading.”

“Hear, hear!” said Mandy. “Fuck trading!”

Ernie laughed. “How about you, ‘Moine?”

“Healer,” she said, without hesitation. “I used to want to work in the Department of Mysteries, but after the war…I just want to help people, you know, in some way.”

Draco looked at her, at her big, serious, dark eyes aimed up at the pretend stars. “Me too,” he said.

She shifted her gaze towards him. “You? Really? Don’t you have to go be Lord of the Manor or something?”

“I’m supposed to,” Draco confessed. “Since my father…well. But I’m not. I’m going to become a Healer.”

On his other side, Harry reached over and squeezed his hand and Draco squeezed back.

“Then we’d be in training together,” Hermione said, grinning over at him. “That’d be nice.”

“You think it’d be…nice? Really?” he asked, surprised.

“Yes, really. You’re not so bad, Malfoy. And we could study together, which would be helpful. I may have noticed that you study a lot. And you might not know this, but I, too, happen to study a lot.” She giggled.

“I did actually notice that, yeah,” Draco said. “Like, two weeks into first year, I noticed that. Okay, so we’re studying together next year. Deal?”

“Deal,” she said, offering him her hand. They shook.

“How about you, Mandy?” asked Draco.

“Along the same lines, sort of. I’ll be doing an apprenticeship with Madam Pomfrey next year. She’s hoping to retire soon, and I’m to replace her. I’ll need to do a year of Healer training, too, but first I’m going to stay here at Hogwarts to shadow her.”

“Salazar’s tit, Mandy!” Draco cried. “You’re the new Pomfrey? You ought to be sainted, I swear to Merlin. The things that poor woman put up with, from Potter alone. Think of how many bones she’s had to grow for that git!”

Potter elbowed him. “You ought to know, Malfoy. You broke half of them.”

“Now that is an extreme exaggeration, Potter,” Draco said, smiling.

“What about you, Harry?” asked Mandy.

“I’m going to be an Auror. Assuming I do well enough on my NEWTs.”

“Oh, Harry, like they’d turn you away. You could practically teach a DADA course yourself,” Hermione said.

“It would be mad of them to pass up the chance to have you on the force,” Draco said.

“I dunno guys. I’m not great at tests.”

“You’re not _that_ bad,” Hermione protested.

“Plus, you’re _Harry Fucking Potter_ ,” Ernie said. “Not trying to make you feel weird about it or anything, but surely they’d make an exception for you, if you didn’t do as well on your NEWT’s as you’d like.”

“I don’t want to be an exception,” Harry said, frowning. “That’s the last thing I want. I want to have to work just as hard as everybody else. I want to be treated like everybody else.”

Ernie laughed. “Merlin, _why_? I mean, it’s not like you didn’t earn the reputation. You practically killed yourself to save us all.”

“Not practically. I did.”

Everyone went silent. Draco turned to look at Harry, who was staring resolutely at the ceiling. “What the fuck does that mean?” Draco asked.

“I, erm…”

“Harry, you don’t have to talk about this,” said Hermione.

“No, it’s…it’s okay. It happened, right? No need to hide it or whatever.”

“What the hell are you talking about?” Draco asked, feeling a weird twist of anxiety in his stomach.

Harry turned to face him, his eyes a dark, shadowy green. “I died, in the Forbidden Forest. When I went out to meet Voldemort.”

Draco heard Ernie inhale sharply, and Mandy made a little whimpering noise. But Draco only had eyes for Harry; it was like it was just the two of them in the library, all of a sudden. “But, my mother said you were breathing, when she found you.”

“Yes, because I’d come back by then. But I was dead, for a while. It was an Avada Kedavra, Draco. You don’t live through those.”

“Then…how?” Draco asked.

Harry shrugged. “I don’t know. I saw Dumbledore. He said I could come back or keep going. I decided to come back.”

“You – holy shit. Fucking hell, Harry,” Draco said, reaching for his hand again. He squeezed it tightly and wished he could hug him. “Well, thank fuck you did. _Merlin_.”

“Wow,” Mandy breathed. “That’s incredible, Harry. And terrifying.”

“Very terrifying,” agreed Ernie.

“Yeah, tell me about it,” Harry said.

“I won’t say anything to anyone,” Mandy said.

“Me either,” said Ernie. “Swear it.”

Harry shrugged. “Okay,” he said. “Thanks.”

Draco didn’t say so, but by the way Harry looked at him, he knew that Harry understood he would never breathe a word of it.

“Sorry for being a huge downer,” Harry said, trying to laugh.

“Oh, hush,” said Mandy, reaching her hand over her head to pat Harry’s head. “We were getting much too serious anyway, before that. What do you all say to another round of Waterfall?”

“Fuck yes,” said Harry.

“I’m in,” said Ernie.

“Salazar save us from ourselves,” said Draco. “I’m in too.”

Hermione jumped up and pointed her wand at the peaceful night sky, which immediately turned a sunny blue.

“Nice,” said Draco. He turned off his night sounds and they got back to it.

When they all stumbled out of the library about an hour later, they were quite a sight, rowdy and noisy and carrying on. Weasley hurried over to them and took Hermione’s hand, looking her over. “What the hell’ve you done to her?” he asked. Hermione was singing a Celestina Warbeck song -- loudly.

Mandy hiccupped. “—‘s the gin,” she said.

“Oh, great,” said Ron. “Fantastic. Well, all of you tossers are going to clean it when she sicks up all over my bed.”

“It would be my honor, Ronald!” exclaimed Harry, tackling Ron in a hug and then throwing him down onto the floor and pretending to punch him.

“Fucking hell, get off me, you git!” Ron cried, laughing. “Malfoy, get your boy under control!”

Blaise, who was sitting on one of the sofas with Padma and Parvati and Theo, looked up sharply at this. Draco, who was far too intoxicated to think through the implications of that, tried to pretend he didn’t notice. He hauled Harry up off of Ron and tried to stand him up straight. Instead of cooperating, Harry promptly flung his arms around Draco’s neck and kissed him on the mouth.

Draco pushed him gently away. “Harry,” he said softly. “Time for bed, I think.” He felt vaguely embarrassed, somewhere underneath the gin and vodka rushing through his blood stream, but that seemed far away, and he mostly just found himself swept up in a feeling of sweet, warm fondness.

“Yes, please,” said Harry, grinning crookedly. His glasses were slipping down his nose, so Draco pushed them back up.

Draco glanced around, then, and saw that nearly everyone in the Common Room, including Blaise, was staring at them open-mouthed. Everyone besides Ernie and Hermione and Mandy, that was, since they were too wasted to notice.

He should be concerned about this, probably. Tomorrow, he would be concerned. Tonight, he would help Harry to bed. “Come on, wanker,” he said, letting Harry lean against him. Together, they made their way down the corridor to Harry’s room, stumbling and laughing.

“Need pajamas,” Draco said.

“Don’ leave, Draco,” Harry said. “You can wear mine, okay?”

Draco suddenly didn’t want to leave, not even for a minute. Blaise was out there, somewhere, and he didn’t want to run into him. “Usually wear pants, but just not…not in here,” Draco said.

“You can wear pants. You should just wear pants,” Harry said. “I will too, it’ll be nice.”

Oh, it was a terrible idea. But it sounded so good. “Ummm,” said Draco, trying to think.

Harry was shucking off his jumper. He threw it across the room, where it landed on Ernie’s bed. Then he was taking off his t-shirt, and threw that against the wall. Then he kicked off his shoes, almost falling, and then he was pulling off his jeans. These, he chucked towards Draco, and they landed on his head. Draco found himself giggling helplessly.

Then Harry’s hands were at Draco’s trousers, messing with the flies. “Like this,” he said, pulling.

“Harry,” Draco said. “I dunno –”

“Just going to bed, Draco. You have to be comfortable for bed, you know.”

“Yeah,” said Draco. “But –”

“Shh,” said Potter, smiling.

Draco let him lift off his jumper and t-shirt, and then let him take off his shoes and socks and slide down his trousers. “Oh,” Harry said.

He was looking at Draco, eyes trailing over his body, and Draco couldn’t help but look back. Harry was gorgeous, all wiry muscle, his skin a treasure map of scars. He had a little bit of dark chest hair. Draco stepped forward and touched it, just to see how it felt.

“You’re beautiful,” Harry breathed, still staring. “I figured, but…”

“You saw me in a towel before,” Draco pointed out, running his fingers down Harry’s chest.

“Yeah, but I didn’t really look, because, you know, it felt like I shouldn’t.”

“Yeah,” Draco agreed. He’d done the same thing.

“I want to kiss you,” Harry said. “Can I please?”

Bad idea, bad idea, bad idea, bad idea, said a voice in Draco’s head. “Yes,” he said.

Harry didn’t seem to hear him at first, but then what Draco said seemed to register, and Harry looked at him sharply.

Draco wanted him. He wanted him so much, he cared about him so much, and he wanted to touch him and taste him so badly it almost hurt.

Harry tugged at his hand, pulling him towards the bed. Draco let himself be pulled. Harry closed the curtains and then settled onto his side, facing Draco. Their faces were very close. Harry took off his glasses and set them aside.

Draco closed his eyes and Harry began to kiss him gently, no tongue at all, just a press of warm lips moving slow as honey. Draco let his hand drift to Harry’s chest, touching the hair there again, which seemed quite intimate, somehow. It was hardly anything at all, what they were doing, yet his cock was fully hard in his pants.

Harry’s hand went to Draco’s hair. “I love your hair,” Harry said, pulling back slightly to look. “It’s so soft. It always smells so good.”

“You smell like coconut,” Draco said, opening his eyes and staring right into Harry’s green ones.

“My shampoo,” Harry said.

“I like it,” Draco said.

“I like your eyes,” Harry said, running a finger over Draco’s eyebrow. “They have rings. They’re gorgeous.”

“I like your eyes, too,” Draco said. “They’re so beautiful. You have very dark lashes, did you know?”

Harry shook his head no. “I really like the way you smile,” Draco continued. "It’s not straight. It goes up more on one side than the other.” He touched one corner. “This side always goes higher.”

Harry huffed a soft laugh. “Your smile goes up into your cheeks, almost disappears in there.”

“Oh?” asked Draco. He’d never known this.

“Yeah. And…my favorite thing is when you laugh really hard. You don’t do it a lot, but when you do, I always laugh even if I don’t know what the hell you’re laughing about. It’s just so cute, I can’t help it.”

Draco was almost positive no one had ever called him _cute_ before. It made him feel good. Clean.

“Draco, I –” Harry began, and Draco found he was afraid of what Harry might say. So he kissed him instead.

This kiss wasn’t quite so innocent as the first one. It was, however, agonizingly slow and deep, and Draco felt it all the way to his toes, and definitely in his cock, which was throbbing at this point.

Harry pressed his hips forward, and Draco felt Harry’s prick against his own, heavy and thick with desire. Draco groaned into Harry’s mouth at the feel of it.

Harry took Draco’s hand and brought it to his mouth. “You kissed my hand the other night,”

Draco nodded. He had.

“Why?”

“I wanted to,” Draco said.

“It felt so good,” said Harry.

“You keep kissing my neck, before you go to sleep.” Draco said.

“Your birthmark. It’s pink.”

I have a pink birthmark?” Draco asked. Another thing he didn’t know.

“Yeah, it’s not very big. It’s shaped like a heart.”

Draco laughed. “No shit,” he said.

“I like kissing it,” Harry said.

Then Harry kissed him again, and slowly, it got hotter and hotter, until Draco thought he might lose his mind in it. Helplessly, he pressed himself against Harry, against his firm chest and his hard cock, their legs tangling together, so much _skin_ touching. Harry’s hands were running up and down his back, and then down over the curve of his arse, and then they were slipping beneath Draco’s pants, seeking more bare skin.

Harry pulled him closer, and it felt so good, so good, the press of lips and hips and thighs and chests. He could feel Harry’s chest hair against him, tickling him, and he ran his hand along Harry’s stubble and into his soft hair.

Suddenly they were rutting against one another properly, thrusting together, and Draco felt his stomach bottom out despite the fact that there were two pairs of pants between them. Harry’s leg snaked over his, and his legs opened wider, allowing Draco to grind into him harder and harder.

“Fuck,” Harry whispered against his mouth. “You feel so good, Draco.”

Draco tried to reply but his brain wasn’t working right and all that came out was a little whimper. Harry began kissing his throat and biting at his earlobes, and Draco threw his head back, reeling in the sensations that were humming along his skin and down his spine.

Harry’s hand was at the waistband of Draco’s pants, teasing along the edges, and then he was reaching down to take Draco’s cock.

Something about that, about that line being crossed, made Draco freeze up.

“No,” he said. “Can’t…no.”

“Why?” Harry asked, his eyes wide and green.

 _Because I love you, and I’m hurting you even though you don’t know it. Because I’m dirty and tainted. Because there’s something very wrong with me. Because you deserve better. Because I let Blaise fuck me in the arse not even a week ago. Because. Because_. Because.

“Harry,” he began. “You’re…you’re my best friend.” And it was true, wasn’t it? It was mad, and it made no sense, and it had ripped through his life like a tornado, but it was still true. Harry was his best friend. “If I let this happen, you’ll end up hating me, and then…and then what I will I do?”

Harry frowned. “Why would I hate you?”

Draco scooted away, putting distance between them. “Because you don’t know! You don’t know what I’m like, not really! You think I’m good, but I’m not good Harry, I’m _not_. I’m the same fucking arsehole I was before. The way I am around you, that’s not who I am.”

“I think it is,” Harry said, brushing Draco’s hair back from his face. “I think that _is_ who you really are. And you’re wonderful, and you _are_ good, and -- ”

“I’m fucking Blaise!” Draco cried.

Harry blinked at him. “What?”

“That’s who I’m fucking, Harry. Not past tense. Present tense.”

“But…Blaise isn’t gay. And…and Padma. What about Padma?”

“Obviously, Padma doesn’t know. And Blaise is gay enough to suck my cock and fuck me up the arse, so, you know. At least a little gay, I’d say.”

Harry flinched. “When? When did this happen last?”

“Last Saturday.”

“When you didn’t want to sleep in here,” Harry said, understanding washing over his face. “That’s why you didn’t want to sleep in here.”

Draco nodded, and felt his chin jut out, the way it always used to when he was bracing himself for a blow (verbal or otherwise) from his father.

Harry rolled onto his back, staring at the purple canopy over the bed. It felt like forever, that he stayed that way, unmoving. Draco’s heart was hammering in his chest, and he felt absolutely sick, and, at the same time, relieved. Because now Harry knew. Harry knew the truth.

“Get out, please,” Harry whispered, finally.

Draco didn’t argue. It was what he deserved. It was probably a lot _kinder_ than what he deserved, if he were honest. He moved to the foot of the bed and peeked out through the curtains, and, seeing the room was empty, grabbed his things and hurriedly pulled them on.

“If Blaise doesn’t tell Padma, I’m going to,” Harry said.

“Harry, you can’t just –”

“I _can_. Yes, I fucking can. Nobody deserves that shit, Draco.”

“I was with him before her, Harry. He was with me first. I didn’t…I didn’t mean for it to hurt her.” Draco felt close to tears. God, he was such a fucking dick. Something was so wrong with him.

Harry looked at him with some awful mixture of pity and disgust. “I don’t want to hear it. You have a week. You two have a week, to tell her.”

Draco swallowed thickly and then nodded. “Yeah. Okay.”

“Good,” Harry said, and then shut the curtains around him.

Draco slipped out into the corridor, trembling all over. He needed to make it to his room before he cried. It wasn’t far. He could make it down the hall without crying.

Ernie and Daphne came around the corner, and his arm was thrown around her, and they were laughing together. Daphne looked up and saw him, and Draco wondered what his face must look like right now. “Hey, Draco,” Daphne began, her brow furrowing. “Are you --”

“Fine. Tired. Goodnight,” he said, practically running away.

He yanked his door open and found, to his dismay, that Blaise and Padma and Parvati and Theo and Millie were all inside, all spread out on the floor and on Blaise’s bed.

“Hi, Draco,” said Padma cheerfully.

“Hi, uh, hi everyone. Sorry, but um. I kind of feel like shit, so I’m going to just go to bed.”

“Oh, sorry. We can go back to the Common Room,” said Millie. 

“No need, it’s fine,” Draco said. “Please, stay here. I’m sure I’ll pass right out.”

“Too much to drink,” Padma said sympathetically. “It happens to the best of us, mate.”

“Mm,” said Draco. Blaise was trying to catch his eye, but Draco wouldn’t let him. “Night.” He climbed into bed in all his clothes, and crawled under his covers. He cast one Muffliato, and then another, and then a privacy charm. He lay there, breathing fast, his heart practically pounding out of his chest. He felt entirely empty and almost numb for a moment, and then, suddenly, a weight like nothing he’d ever felt seemed to fall on him, burying him, and he began, finally, to cry.


	12. Why Bother Talking

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry consults with Pansy and does something dumb

I know it  
It's a shame  
A shame I can't show it  
And I see it  
I can see it now  
But I'm so far below it  
Don't wanna  
Don't wanna talk about it  
I say why not?  
Don't wanna think about it  
I say there's got to be some good reason For your little black backpack  
Up, smack, turnaround he's on his back  
And  
Don't wanna tango with you  
I'd rather tangle with him  
I think I'm gonna bash his head in  
And this shouldn't concern you except that  
Just don't expect to get your bloody black backpack back

**_Little Black Backpack_ / Stroke 9**

* * *

Harry had a few lucky moments after he opened his eyes where he didn’t remember what happened the night before. He stretched, and realized his head hurt and his stomach didn’t feel all that great, either, but that was okay, it was Saturday, and didn’t really need to be doing much of anything. Maybe he’d go to Hogsmeade today with Draco and Ron and Hermione, but that wasn’t really –

Then he remembered.

It hit him all of a sudden, the memory of what Draco’d said, and it felt like a punch to the gut, so much so that he curled up around his pillow at the feel of that phantom pain. “Shit,” he muttered.

Fucking Blaise. Fucking Blaise, he was going to kick the shit out of that piece of shit. What a complete _arsehole_.

It was easier to think about Blaise, and all he’d done wrong (which was a lot), rather than think of Draco, and what Draco had done, because thoughts of Blaise made him _angry_ , and made him want to _punch things_ , but thoughts of Draco made him want to curl up into a ball and never leave his bed ever again.

Harry had been so stupid. He was always so stupid, never seeing what was really there (or _not_ there).

He’d really thought Draco was falling for him. He knew Draco was worried that Harry had only just realized he liked boys, but he figured that as time passed, that would stop being such a big deal. He also knew that Draco had been having sex with somebody, but he’d assumed, naively, that he’d stopped when he started sleeping in Harry’s room. He’d asked Pansy about it, and hadn’t really gotten a straight answer, but he’d just sort of thought…

Honestly, though, Draco had been in here _every_ night besides Saturday (fucking Saturday), so it wasn’t that mad to think that he had stopped shagging the other bloke. It hardly seemed like there was time!

So much made sense now. He thought back to how strange Draco had been acting at Hog’s Head, like he’d had something on his mind. Had he been trying to tell Harry then? Had he been trying to decide whether to go through with it?

And then Sunday, he’d been so weird, hardly meeting Harry’s eyes, refusing to be around him until supper.

Harry wondered, suddenly, whether he had any right to be angry with Draco. He felt awful – gutted – but was it Draco’s fault or his own? Draco had told him that he was having sex with someone else. He’d even told Harry he couldn’t keep kissing him for that very reason.

But then he’d kept sleeping here. He’d kissed Harry’s hand. He’d spooned him and hugged him and held his hand in the library last night and then he’d come in here and let Harry take off his clothes, and then he’d said all those things, and then he _had_ kissed Harry again, and touched him practically everywhere, and acted like…like he wanted him, like he cared for him, like he was falling for him, too.

But he wasn’t. Obviously he wasn’t, because if he _was_ , he wouldn’t have been having sex with Blaise – what, six days earlier? 

Ugh, and poor Padma. She was mad for Blaise, anybody with eyes could see that. She fawned all over him, adored him, and Blaise let her, let her make a fool of herself, when he was off sucking Draco’s cock in the evenings, and…ugh. Harry couldn’t even think about it. It made him sick. It made him so _angry_. If Blaise appeared in Harry’s room right now, Harry would hit him right in his smug face, and then he’d keep hitting him until his knuckles bled.

He didn’t know what he was supposed to do with Draco. Go back to being friends? Stop speaking to him? Punch _him_ in the face, too? None of these seemed like good options, but they were all Harry had.

He hated every single one of them, because he didn’t _want_ to punch Draco in the face, and he didn’t want to stop speaking to him, and really, he didn’t want to keep being his friend, because that would be painful as hell, especially after last night, after knowing what it felt like to have Draco pressed against him, after learning what it was to kiss him and hold him. How could he possibly forget that and just… _be_ _friends_?

What he _wanted_ was for Draco to come running in here to tell Harry that he’d told Blaise to go to hell, and that he wanted to be with Harry and nobody else. He wanted Draco to promise never to let Blaise touch him again, and then to tell Harry that he wanted to shag him until he forgot that Blaise had ever even existed.

None of that was bloody likely.

Harry sighed and ran his hands over his face. Fucking hell.

It had been so good, too. It was some sort of special torture to have had that time with Draco right before the bomb detonated. The way Draco felt in his arms, the things he’d said. The way Harry felt, like the world was shimmering and full of magic and so beautiful he could hardly stand it, and like nothing else existed, or had ever existed, outside of the curtains of his bed, outside of Draco and Harry, outside of their words and their skin and hearts and their hands.

For Merlin’s sake, he’d almost blurted out that he was falling in love with Draco. He’d been about to say it, when Draco started kissing him again. Thank fuck he hadn’t. In the ocean of awfulness that was Harry’s current state of affairs, at least he had that small blessing. At least he didn’t have to feel humiliated because he’d said _that_.

He didn’t know who to talk to, either. Neither Ron nor Hermione would really understand, and besides, Harry didn’t feel comfortable telling them about Blaise. Padma needed to know, but nobody else did. And it wasn’t Harry’s place to tell them.

But Pansy knew, Harry realized. She’d known exactly who Draco was involved with. It would be okay to talk to _her_ , probably.

He got up, feeling rather wretched. Hangovers were so much worse when your heart was heavy.

He showered fast, and thank Merlin he didn’t run into Malfoy, and then he was hurrying to the girls’ corridor, to Pansy and Hermione’s room.

He knocked on the door and Millie opened it. “Oh, hi, Harry,” she said. “’Hermione’s not here, she’s –“

“That’s okay, I was hoping to talk to Pansy.”

Millie’s eyebrows shot up. “Oh, alright, then,” she said, opening the door wider. Pansy was sprawled out on her stomach on her bed, head propped up with one hand, reading one of those awful romance books with the muscley bloke on the cover casting smoldering gazes out at the room. Harry, despite how terrible he felt, had to laugh.

“Oi, you bought one of those things?”

She smirked. “One? Potter, I have a vast collection. I consider it an investment in my career.”

“Career?” Harry asked, confused. Pansy wasn’t planning on becoming, like, an _escort_ or something, was she?

“I dabble, for now, but after school, I’m planning to write books like this and make oodles of galleons doing it.”

“She’s already good at it, Harry,” Millie said, slipping trainers onto her feet. She was the only one of the Slytherin girls who didn’t wear aggressively feminine clothes, and Harry admired her for it. “I’ve read her stuff. It’s…well. It’s just the thing for spicing up a dull night.”

Harry found himself blushing. “Oh, er. That’s nice.”

“You can read some, if you want. You might learn a thing or two,” Pansy drawled.

“Sure,” Harry said, sitting down on the edge of Pansy’s bed. Merlin, he never stopped blushing around Pansy. Damn his cheeks.

“I’m going to breakfast,” Millie said. “You want anything, Harry? Pans?”

“I’m okay, thanks,” Harry said, thinking that he might not ever eat again, what with the way his stomach felt.

“No, I’m not eating until noon. Intermittent fasting, you know,” said Pansy.

Harry wondered, vaguely, what that was, but he let it go.

“Ah, right,” said Millie, rolling her eyes. She gave them a wave and closed the door behind her.

“So,” Pansy said, fixing her sharp gaze on him. It reminded him of a hawk's, especially now, when the gilded morning light was filtering in through the window and lighting up her hazel eyes so that they almost glowed. “What is it this time? I haven’t gotten any information from Draco, if that’s why you’re here. He’s being very skittish about the whole thing, so I’m guessing it’s in a state of flux. Heard about your little show last night in the Common Room, though. All the girls were saying that you two seemed very much…together. Snogging and what-not, in front of everyone. So maybe you’ve solved the problem yourselves?”

“Er. Not exactly.” He grimaced.

“Salazar’s spunk, Potter, what did you do?”

“ _I_ didn’t do anything!” Harry replied, throwing his hands up into the air. “ _Draco_ , on the other hand, informed me that he’s been shagging Blaise, right up until last Saturday. Which, by the way, he ditched me to do.”

Pansy pulled herself into a sitting position and sighed. “Well, shit. I’d hoped he was done with that mess.”

“He’s not.”

“So, what did you do at that point?” Pansy asked.

“I kicked him out of my room. Told him to tell Blaise he had a week to tell Padma the truth, otherwise I would.”

Pansy frowned. “Blaise is not about to tell Padma he’d fooling around with a _bloke_. No way. He won’t do it. You may not have picked this up, but Blaise isn’t exactly forthcoming, about his… _preferences_. He’s made himself quite comfortable in his little closet. Gets his owls delivered there and everything.”

Harry snorted. “I don’t care. Padma deserves to know she’s being cheated on.”

“Are you and Padma secretly best friends or something? Why should you care about her? Because I’ll tell you, from here, it looks like you’re angry that you got hurt, but don’t think you have the right to be angry, and are using this Padma thing to justify your feelings.”

Ouch. If that didn’t feel like a kick to the bollocks. “It doesn’t matter that she’s not my best friend, Pansy. She’s a _person_. She doesn’t deserve to be treated like that.”

Pansy rolled her eyes. “Oh, Merlin, I forgot who I’m talking to. Yes, Potter, yes, alright, it is rather sad for her. But I still don’t think you have any right to force Blaise into outing himself. No matter how much of a cockhead he’s being, that’s not your call.”

“Well…maybe he can just tell her he’s been cheating. Just, generally.”

Pansy nodded. “That might be better. But enough of that -- why don’t we focus on you for a minute? You’re clearly beside yourself. Why is this so upsetting to you? Did Draco lie to you about it?”

“Er. He’s been…well, no, he didn’t lie. But he’s been sending mixed signals. He told me about it, yeah, but then never acted like it was a problem. So I guess I thought it was over and done with, you know?”

“Mm. I see. Potter, you know Blaise and Draco were close, even before their… _trysts_ began?”

“I knew they were friends, yeah.”

“The three of us – Blaise and Draco and me – we went through some shit, fifth year. Blaise especially. He got caught up with some older Slytherins and…it was messy. It kind of fucked him up. Draco helped him through all that, and then Blaise was the most vocally supportive of Draco, when he came out to all of us. Theo and Vince were being arseholes about it, but Blaise put a stop to that.”

“Okay, fine. I still don’t see what that has to do with anything.”

“Well, you’re looking at this from _your_ perspective. You and Draco started this…” she waved her hand around vaguely, “ _thing_ , what, three weeks ago? Three weeks, Potter. I know sometimes when things are intense, that seems like a lot of time. But it’s not. Blaise and Draco have been friends since they were children, and they have been incredibly close for years, and they’ve been… _shagging_ , sorry…since September. So while this might seem very cut and dry to you, it probably doesn’t to Draco.”

“But I had practically the same thing, with Ginny. She was asking me to get back together last weekend, and I said no! I wouldn’t have done that to Draco!”

“To Draco? Or to yourself? Because the Weasley girl broke your heart, a bit, from what I gathered.”

Ugh, damn it. He should never have come to Pansy. Of course she was on Draco’s side. And who cared if what she was saying made sense, it wasn’t what Harry wanted to hear right now. “Can’t you just sympathize with me a little, for fuck’s sake!” he blurted, without quite meaning to.

“Yes, I can, if that’s what you want. Certainly.” She cleared her throat and adopted a pained expression. “Boo hoo, sucks to be you, you just got your heart stomped on _again_ for the second time in a row. Savior of the wizarding world and _still_ nobody loves you. That ginger slag dumped you for Dean Sodding Thomas and now Draco’s told you he’s shagging another bloke. Poor Harry. Poor, poor Harry. My heart _bleeds_.”

Harry stared at her, almost trembling with anger. “You’re an arsehole, Parkinson,” he managed.

She straightened her face, tossing aside her sad expression like it was an old shirt. “Yes, I am. And I’m also Draco’s oldest friend. I know he didn’t want to hurt you, Potter. He’s in just as deep as you are, in regards to your… _friendship_. But he also happens to be in a rather confusing situation with another one of my very good friends, a situation that existed long before you came waltzing into his life.”

She glared, her nostrils flaring. “You could have asked him about it, like I told you to. You two could have talked it over. But you didn’t, and you decided to move in on him at warp speed, without letting him sort out his life first. Had you taken this a little slower, this might not have happened. Had you talked openly, this might not have happened. But you didn’t do either one of those things, and now you’re both hurt and angry and yes, I hate it. I like you, Potter, and I don’t particularly want to see you harmed, but I _love_ Draco, and my first instinct is to protect him. So. Maybe you shouldn’t have come to me if all you wanted was sympathy. I’m not terribly good at that anyway.” She sat back against her headboard, crossing her arms.

Underneath his fury, Harry felt a stirring of something else. He’d never seen this side of Pansy, this fiercely loyal, almost maternal aspect of her personality. He’d always thought she was the sort of person to never care about anyone but herself, but that obviously wasn’t true. He thought that this was what he would say to someone, if they came to him about Ron or Hermione. Maybe not as cruelly, but it would have amounted to the same thing.

“So, what should I do?” he said, feeling suddenly deflated.

She sighed, some of her hardness melting away. “I don’t know. I can’t tell you what Draco really wants. I know he has feelings for Blaise, and I know he has feelings for you. I don’t know what’ll win out in the end. And really, you don’t seem to be in a place where you can let this go, anyway. Maybe you should give it time, see what happens.”

Oh, because Harry was so great at _that_. He was a doer, a man of action. He was definitely not good at being patient. “Am I supposed to be his friend in the meantime? Act like none of this ever happened?”

Pansy shrugged. “ _Can_ you be his friend? Or will all your feelings keep interfering?”

“I don’t know,” he said, honestly.

“Figure that out. I will say, though, Potter -- you’re good for him. He’s seemed happier since he took up with you. He wasn’t doing so well, before. He was in a bad place last semester. It’s been good to see him so much more himself lately; I would hate for that to end. But if you can’t give him that anymore, if you can’t be his friend, then you can’t. I get that.” She looked a little shiny-eyed at that, like she was about to cry, which seemed akin to the sky falling.

“What was he like, last semester?” Harry asked, feeling apprehensive over the answer.

“He never slept. He barely ate. He was always jumpy, always on edge. One day when I came in to talk to him, he whirled around and punched me in the face. Didn’t realize it was me, I guess. I was hardly even surprised; that’s just how he was at the time. Lost in his own head, hardly aware of what was going on around him. He didn’t mean to do it, of course, and it really got to him. He’s still treating me like I’m made of glass all these months later. I think he still feels guilty about it, even though he shouldn’t.”

She was shaking her head. “He was just a mess. I mean, for fuck’s sake, he was on the losing side of a war, everyone hated him, he saw some _shit_ at the Manor, lemme tell you, and then his father died, which nearly put him over the edge. And then on top of everything else, he had Blaise fucking with his head. It wasn’t good, Potter.”

No, it sounded not good. It sounded terrible. “Yeah,” he said.

She reached over and patted his shoulder. “I know your life hasn’t been a walk in the park, either. I can see that.”

“Is that… _sympathy_ that I hear in your voice, Pansy?”

“No, you wanker. I’m not good at that, remember?” She smiled ruefully at him. “Don’t hurt him, okay? No more than necessary, at least.”

“I wouldn’t…I won’t,” Harry said. He wondered if he was making a mistake by promising that. “Hey, now that I probably have an empty bed for a while, you want to do that thing again?” He was teasing, mostly, although last night left him awfully frustrated, so maybe he wasn’t totally teasing. And, said a tiny, mean voice in his head, it would serve Draco right. That was mean, though. He shouldn’t think that.

Pansy snorted. “No thank you.”

Harry frowned. “But you’ve practically been begging me to fool around with you.”

“At first, I really did want to, because you’re great in bed, Harry. But then, I was mostly just checking, to see where your head was, regarding Draco.”

Harry blinked at her. “So it was, what, a test?”

She shrugged. “If you want to call it that.”

He stood, shaking his head. “Fucking Slytherins,” he muttered, making his way to the door.

She giggled. “Hey, Harry,” she called. “Catch!”

His hands went up automatically, and he found himself holding a little leather-bound notebook. “What’s this?”

“I call it _Snakes at the Gate_. It’s a Victorian-Era thriller-slash-gay-erotica. I think you might enjoy it. Lots of rimming.”

He found himself flushing again. Damn Pansy. “Er, thanks,” he said, slipping out into the hall.

He wanted to see Rom and Hermione. Not to talk about this, but just to see them, to feel the camaraderie and easy company that had carried him through the last seven-plus years. Only they were probably in Ron’s room, which was also Draco’s room, which was also Blaise’s room.

But, no. Harry was allowed to see his friend. He wasn’t going to start avoiding _Ron_ because of this shit.

He strode towards the boys’ corridor with purpose, stretching his spine tall, raising his head. He didn’t let himself hesitate before knocking on the door.

“Come in,” said a deep voice.

Harry pushed open the door. “Ron?” he asked.

Zabini was in the room, alone. “Breakfast,” he said, looking frozen. Just by the expression on his face, Harry knew Draco had told him.

“Thanks,” Harry muttered, pulling the door closed.

“Potter, wait,” said Zabini.

Harry looked back in, saying nothing, letting his glare communicate his feelings instead.

“I told Padma. Not…not everything. Just that I’d been unfaithful, and that it was over.”

Well, that was fucking fast. “Good,” Harry said.

“That’s enough, right?”

“Sure, whatever.”

“So, you’re not going to say anything?”

Harry snorted. “ _That’s_ what you’re worried about?”

Zabini looked angry, suddenly. “I know that for you, this has been a delightful experience, but not all of us can decide that we’re bent and go skipping through the halls singing about it to everyone who will listen the next day.”

Harry found his fists coiling. “You didn’t do all this out of fear, Zabini. You did it because you didn’t care about hurting people.”

“As though you know my motivations for _anything_ , Potter.” He stood up from his bed and Harry realized that he was actually quite tall, even taller than Draco, and quite broad, too, with decently-sized arms. Still, Harry was wily. Harry was angrier. He could take him. “You think that just because you’ve dragged Draco into your bed for a couple weeks, you know anything about him? You don’t. And you know even less about me. _You’re_ the one poking his head into things that don’t concern you, bossing me about as though it was any business of yours at all. But, fine, you’ve destroyed my relationship with Padma. Hope you’re just thrilled about it. But now, it’s _my_ turn to tell _you_ what to do, and that’s to stay away from Draco. He was a fucking mess last night, thanks to you. Not me, _you_. You don’t know him, and you can’t help him. That’s _my_ job. He’s _my_ friend. You need to just fuck right off to all your little Gryffindor groupies, and leave us alone. I hear the Weasley bint’s offering her snatch up to you on a platter. Maybe you ought to take it.”

Well, Harry wasn’t going to stand by and take _that_.

He pulled his elbow back and lunged, hitting Zabini in the chin, hard. Zabini wasn’t expecting it, and he flew back onto his bed, and Harry was on him in an instant, fists flying. Zabini got him in the gut, though, with his own fist, and Harry instinctively began to curl around it, and then suddenly his crotch exploded in pain as something got him in the bollocks. A knee, maybe.

Harry rolled over, trying to breathe through the waves of pain, and then Zabini was looming over him, and Harry brought his head back and slammed it into Zabini’s face.

“Fuck!” Zabini cried, stumbling away from the bed and clutching his nose, which had begun to bleed. Harry seized the opportunity by jumping up and clocking him on one side of the head and then the other, and then Zabini’s elbow hit Harry right in the eye.

“Arsehole!” Harry roared, and jumped on him, body slamming him onto the floor. Everything blurred together then, a mess of pain and fury and an almost glorious, adrenaline-spiked madness, so that the pain didn’t really feel so painful, so that kicking and hitting and hurting felt almost joyous. Harry’s veins were practically singing with it, and a distant part of himself wondered if this was what the Vikings used to feel when they called themselves berserkers, when they charged into battle without fear.

“Stop!’ cried a voice. Hermione, Harry realized vaguely. “Stop it, Harry!”

Arms were pulling him back, pulling him away from Zabini, who was just lying there, bloodied, blinking up at Harry in a daze. At least he was blinking, Harry thought numbly.

Harry looked around. Hermione and Ron were there, looking shocked, and behind them, near the door, was Draco, his face bright pink and horrified.

Harry stood, panting, for a moment, and then pushed past Ron and Hermione and Draco, out into the hall. He ran down the corridor and through the Common Room, and kept running through the castle until he was stumbling out into the snow, never mind that he didn’t have on a coat or even robes. He was out here in his jumper and trainers, like a fucking moron. He slowed to a fast walk, putting his fingers under his arms to keep them warm, because _fuck_ it was cold out here.

He kept walking and walking and walking, past the lake and towards the forest, not stopping until he was underneath the canopy of trees, shivering. At least there was no snow underneath the bigger evergreens, places where he could sit without getting wet(ter). His trainers were already soaked from all the snow that had slipped inside and melted against his skin. He sat against the enormous trunk of a Douglas fir, huddling up.

His knuckles hurt. He pulled them out from under his arms to look at them. His right ones were bloodied, but he couldn’t wipe the blood off, because it had dried already, sinking into the little creases on his skin. He realized it was staining the exact spot that Draco had kissed.

Hermione found him hours later, when the sun had already started its descent. “Oh my god,” she said, looking him over. He couldn’t feel his toes at all, despite casting numerous warming charms over himself, and his fingers were going numb, too.

“We need to get you inside,” she said.

Harry shook his head stubbornly.

“Harry, for Circe’s sake. Blaise is fine. We took him to Madam Pomfrey and she healed him right up. And he refused to tell her what had happened, so you’re not in trouble. Come on.”

“No,” he said. It made no sense, because what was he going to do, stay out here until he froze to death? But he didn’t want to go inside. And he still felt like being a dick.

“ _Harry_!” Hermione cried, stomping her foot. “You’re being ridiculous!”

Hermione’s hair was a frizzy mess, and Harry realized it had been snowing outside of the canopy of trees, and she must’ve gotten her hair wet from it. She’d probably been looking for him for a long time. He stood up, feeling wobbly.

She threw her arms around him and pulled him in for a hug. “You idiot. I was so worried.”

He hugged her back. Even if his life was in tatters, at least he had Hermione and Ron. That was something, he supposed.


	13. What You Want

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Draco considers his options

And all the roads we have to walk are winding  
And all the lights that lead us there are blinding  
There are many things that I  
Would like to say to you but I don't know how

Because maybe  
You're gonna be the one that saves me  
And after all  
You're my wonderwall

 ** _Wonderwall_** **/ Oasis**

* * *

“Would you please come here,” Blaise said again, patting the spot on the bed next to him. They were in their room, alone. Granger and Weasley left after they brought Blaise back from his visit to Madam Pomfrey, and Justin Finch-Fletchley was, as usual, nowhere to be found. Draco was fairly certain that Finch-Fletchley and Hannah Abbott had broken up, so he had no idea where he went nowadays.

Draco and Blaise spent the day pretending to study and acting like the last twenty-four hours hadn’t ever happened, but then about a half hour ago, Blaise began hinting that they needed to talk. This was not their typical method of handling problems; usually, Blaise and Draco tip-toed around one another until things normalized. Talking with Blaise – seriously talking – seemed unnatural.

Draco sighed and stood up from his bed to sit next to Blaise. He looked at him, wondering what kind of conversation this was going to be. Would Blaise be providing explanations? Would he lecture or interrogate Draco about Harry? It could be anything.

What he was not expecting was for Blaise to cup his face in his big hands and kiss him tenderly. “I’m sorry, Draco.”

Draco blinked. “About…?”

“About this. About Padma. I wasn’t looking at this as something real, you see. It seemed like something we were simply _doing_ , for fun. I don’t know when that changed, but I know that it did, for me, at least, and I’m sorry that I didn’t realize earlier.”

“So you – but…” Draco’s head was spinning. “I don’t understand. When, exactly, did you realize this?”

Blaise smiled ruefully. His rueful smile was very sexy; contrite Blaise (a rare sight indeed) was very sexy altogether, and Draco felt himself soften, just a little.

“Honestly?” Blaise said. “Last night. I’d been feeling…not great, about you and Potter. But then last night, seeing you with him, I suddenly realized that I wanted to be like that with you. I didn’t want you kissing him, I wanted you kissing _me_. I wasn’t upset this morning, ending things with Padma, because I’d already realized.”

“What are you saying, Blaise?” Draco felt nervous; his palms were sweating.

“I’m saying I want to take this thing with us, whatever it is, more seriously. I don’t want to see anybody else.”

“You want to see _me_ , though? In what sense?”

“Well, obviously, I’m not going to run around snogging you in the Common Room. But I want us to be together. You know. Exclusively.”

“But would we tell people that?” Draco was trying to make sense of all the things Blaise was saying, and also of the things he _wasn’t_ saying.

“Well…no. Not yet. But maybe eventually. I just -- you know it’s not easy for me.”

“I’m aware that this isn’t always easy, damnit. My mother literally fainted this summer when I told her that no, I wouldn’t be marrying Daphne’s younger sister after graduation, because I fancied boys.”

“Yes, but your father wasn’t there, was he? It would’ve been different if he had been.”

“You don’t even _have_ a father, Blaise!”

“No, I have Reginald, who’s a judgmental arsehole, and would love an excuse to write me out of the will.” Reginald was Blaise’s newest stepfather.

“He can’t interfere with what your mother decides to do regarding her own estate,” said Draco.

“Oh, he can. The two of them agreed to hold all assets in a jointly-held trust, even assets obtained prior to the marriage.”

Draco flinched. “Why on earth would she do that?”

Blaise rolled his eyes. “True love, allegedly.”

Draco mulled this over. He, of course, knew all about the pull of purse-strings when it came to one’s parents. But then where did that leave him? “That’s not going to change any time soon. You won’t ever be free to be with me, not really.”

Blaise grinned. “Well. Mother’s marriages for love are often her most short-lived. Strangely, the husbands she’s most smitten with seem to expire rather quickly. As soon as they disappoint her, in fact. And over Christmas, they were in quite a tiff.”

Draco huffed a laugh. Merlin, Mrs. Zabini was a menace. “When Reginald…expires, then. You’re saying we could be open about things at that point?”

“Yes,” said Blaise, nodding firmly. “I shouldn’t see why not.”

Draco sighed. A few months ago, this would have all been thrilling news. He would have jumped at the chance, no matter what he’d been telling himself about no longer being in love with Blaise. Or about never having been in love with Blaise at all.

But…things were different, now, weren’t they? Blaise was, for the first time, letting Draco see a little bit into his heart, in his formal, practical way, and it should have felt wonderful. But instead, it just felt exhausting, somehow. Perhaps it was that Draco hadn’t slept at all the night before. That tended to make everything seem heavy and overwhelming.

He pictured Harry, suddenly, the way he’d looked when Hermione and Ron and Draco came into the room. He’d been terrifying, frankly, almost in some sort of trance, hitting Blaise like that, over and over. And it wasn’t like Draco had enjoyed seeing Blaise in pain – he hadn’t, not at all.

But when Draco’d woken up morning, he’d had no hope at all. Things with Harry were over for good, he knew it in his bones, and he needed to deal with it. But then, seeing Harry like that, seeing how furious he was, Draco wondered if maybe things weren’t as over as he had assumed.

He looked over at Blaise, considering the thing that Blaise was offering. A relationship, an exclusive, albeit secret one. One in which they wouldn’t have to pretend they merely enjoyed getting off together. One in which they could admit they actually cared about each other.

“I need some time to think about it,” Draco said. “I’m a little confused, honestly, about all of this.”

“What, exactly, is ‘all of this’,” asked Blaise. “When you say that, do you mean Potter?”

“Potter, yes. And you. This thing between us hasn’t been healthy, has it? And what you’re offering me isn’t all that healthy either. I don’t know what to think.”

Blaise sighed. “What I’m offering you is _huge_ for me, Draco. I wouldn’t be doing it if I wasn’t invested in this. I never saw myself being in a relationship with another man.”

“Yes, I understand, but Potter…he wants to be with me, Blaise. Or did, anyway, before I mucked it all up. And that felt good, to think that I could be with someone without all these…complications.”

Blaise sneered. Draco didn’t like that look. It meant Blaise was about to say something dickish. “You think Harry Potter’s going to be your forever-boyfriend? You think he’ll love you and settle down with you? Please, Draco. Take some advice from someone in his position – it’s _much_ easier to be with a woman. No one questions it, you don’t have to figure out how to present your relationship, you don’t have to even consider the implications it will have on your life. It’s simple. Mindless.

“Potter’s just discovered a new toy, and right now he wants to play with it all the time. But it won’t always be like that. Eventually, it will occur to him that if he ends up with a woman, things will be much easier for him, not to mention the having children part, which is important to plenty of people. He won’t end up with a man, Draco. Trust me, he won’t. Especially not with his life being the public spectacle that it is.”

Draco’s insides were churning. Blaise _couldn’t_ know that; he didn’t know Harry. Harry wasn’t like that, Harry never cared what people thought.

But Blaise did know what it was like, to have that option. To be attracted to men and women. He’d watched Blaise make the easy decision again and again.

“If that’s true for him, then it’s true for you, too,” Draco pointed out.

Blaise shook his head and took Draco’s hand. “No. It’s different with us, Draco. You’re not my coming-out crush. You’re my friend. I’ve known you my entire life. You’re important to me.”

Draco pulled his hand away. “And yet you treated me like I was disposable.”

“I never meant to. This is difficult. But I do, I care about you. Very much.” He set his hands on Draco’s shoulders, rubbing his thumbs along the muscles there. Draco found himself collapsing into the touch. He was so tired. He leaned against Blaise’s chest, and felt Blaise’s arms go around him tightly. Blaise kissed his hair. “Is that a yes?”

“It’s an I-don’t-know,” Draco mumbled against Blaise’s cashmere, inhaling the scent of his expensive cologne. “It’s an I-need-to-sleep-on-it.”

“Stay in my bed, with me,” Blaise said. His lips were against the skin of Draco’s neck, and they were full and soft.

“I’m not going to fuck you tonight, Blaise,” he said.

“I’m not asking you to, Draco.”

“Fine,” Draco sighed.

Blaise’s alarm went off at 4 a.m., jerking Draco out of a deep, dreamless sleep. He poked his head out of Blaise’s curtains and, seeing that Weasley’s and Finch-Fletchley’s were closed and dark, slipped quietly across the room and into his own bed. Now that he’d slept a few hours, though, and exhaustion was no longer pounding down on his head, he found himself irritatingly awake. He picked up his book on wizarding castles and waited for the sun to come up.

The Slytherins were circling the wagons. They didn’t know why Harry had beat the hell out of Blaise, but they didn’t particularly care. They showed up in Draco and Blaise’s room that morning and clustered around Blaise on the way to breakfast, and Draco knew they would not be welcoming Harry to their side of the Eighth-Year table today. It sucked, that it should come to this, after all their progress uniting the houses, but he didn’t know what to do about it.

He _did_ know that he didn’t feel like dealing with it himself, so he snuck down to the kitchens and grabbed a slice of apple cake and a sausage and brought it back up to his room. He wasn’t hungry, but he’d barely eaten yesterday and knew he ought to force food down.

He was woefully behind on his twenty inches for Potions, mostly because of last week’s Charms essay (how had that only been last week; it seemed like it was a century ago) and all his SASS obligations. And, also, because he had spent yesterday in emotional turmoil and hadn’t been able to get a single thing done.

He took out the library books he was using and began taking notes. His essay was on the likely effects of powdered fairy wings, dragonfly wings, and glitterbug wings on various potion antidotes. Usually, this would have been something he would have enjoyed, but today, he couldn’t get himself to care. His notes were unfocused, scattered, and he even found himself writing the same sentence over three times at one point.

A knock sounded at his door, and Draco froze. “Yes?” he called.

It was Harry.

Draco immediately started to feel hot all over and his mouth went dry. “Hi,” he said, putting down his quill.

Harry walked in and looked around, appearing as nervous as Draco felt. He ran a hand through his already messy hair, and afterward, it looked a bit like he’d been electrocuted. “Can we talk?” he asked.

Draco nodded. “Blaise might be coming back soon,” he said. “Don’t know if you care.”

“Not particularly,” Potter said, and Draco saw his jaw tighten. “Do you?”

“I suppose not. Sit, if you’d like.”

Potter sat at the other side of the bed and picked up Draco’s Slytherin throw, running his fingers over the hem. “Are you okay?”

“Yes. Are you?”

“No,” Potter said, honest as ever. His green eyes flicked up towards Draco’s. “I feel like shit.”

Draco sighed. “Me too.”

“I’m sorry I hit Blaise, if you were mad at me about that.”

“I didn’t love that you did it. I’m not _mad_ at you, though. And, anyway, you’re not sorry. I can tell, by the look on your face. You’d happily hit him again.”

Harry snorted. “Maybe.”

“Please don’t, though.”

“Yeah, yeah. Okay.” He flung himself back on the bed, his legs still dangling off. “So where does this leave us? Are we mortal enemies again?”

“I hope not. Having you as a mortal enemy was quite exhausting.”

Potter looked over, and Draco tried not to stare at the sliver of skin that showed at his waist, revealing his taut stomach and the little trail of dark hair that led into his waistband. “True,” he said. “Then what?”

Draco thought about how disgusted Harry seemed last night. He thought about how he didn’t seem like that today. Then he thought about what Blaise had said, about how Harry would never end up with a man. He thought about how he had no fucking idea what to think about any of it. “I don’t know, honestly.”

“Pansy said I pushed you too much. Seemed to think it’s all my fault.”

Draco found himself laughing. “Pansy’s a bit biased. I wouldn’t put too much stock in her opinion.”

Potter stared up at the ceiling. “Yeah, except I think she might be right.”

“Are you mad? One of us is at fault, Harry, and it’s not you.” What was wrong with Harry, why was he saying this? Was he trying to make Draco feel even guiltier?

Harry kicked his legs against the bed, his face thoughtful. “Draco, are you in love with Blaise? Because I thought you might really like me, but you tossed all that out the window to keep sleeping with Blaise, and so. I don’t understand.”

Sweet Merlin, could Potter not learn to talk about things by talking _around_ them like every other civilized person? “I don’t know what I feel about anything, Harry. You ought to be furious with me. I was horrible to you.”

“You weren’t horrible to me. You were, I dunno, _confusing_. But I need to know the answer, and I need you to tell me the truth, okay?” He looked at Draco, green eyes burning. “Do you still have feelings for Blaise? Yes or no?”

“I –” How was he supposed to know? His brain was full of a million different things, and half of them were in opposition to the other half. “I don’t know. Maybe.”

“That’s not a no,” Harry said, looking pained.

“It’s not a no,” Draco said. It wasn’t a _yes_ either, he almost pointed out, but didn’t.

Harry sat up and nodded to himself. “Okay,” he said.

Draco felt himself start to panic. No, no, he thought. No, that’s not what I _meant_.

Harry took a deep breath. “Okay. Thank you, for being honest.” He looked at Draco, and the full force of his gaze nearly bowled Draco over.

 _Wait!_ thought Draco. _Stop!_

But what could he say? That he was, without a doubt, _not_ in love with Blaise? But that would be a lie, wouldn’t it, because he didn’t fucking know. He had thought he loved Blaise, once. He wondered about it again this morning. But it was different now, everything was different, because of Harry. If Harry would just give him a minute, to _think_ –

But he was continuing on doggedly, a look of determination on his face. “I don’t want to lose you as a friend, Draco. Yesterday, you said I was your best friend, and maybe you just said that because you were kind of hammered, but. I, um. Shit.” He turned away and rubbed at his eyes underneath his glasses, and Draco almost hugged him before remembering that touching Harry all the time – so casually, so carelessly – was what had gotten them into this mess in the first place. “I’ve felt that way, lately, too. And I don’t know what to do about that, because it’s going to really fucking hurt to see you with Blaise, you know, if that’s what ends up happening.”

“Harry, I hardly think –”

“No, let me finish,” Harry said vehemently. “I have to say this now before everything gets more complicated.” He cleared his throat. “So. If I kind of…seem distant, for a while, it’s just because I need a little bit of time. It’s not because you’re not still my friend, or important to me. And if you’re having a rough time again, like before, I’ll always talk to you about it. No matter what. You can talk to me. Okay?”

“What the fuck? Is this, like, some sort of friendship breakup? The ‘letting me down easy’ version?”

“ _No_ , it’s the opposite. I’m saying we’re still friends, even if it’s weird for a while.”

Draco thought through what this would be like, a return to his old life, pre-Harry. He couldn’t think of anything worse. “Fine. Okay. If that’s what you need.”

Harry looked at him sharply. “Don’t do that,” he said.

“Do what?” Draco snapped. “Protect myself from whatever-the-fuck you’re planning on doing?”

“I’m not – _Jesus Christ_ , Draco, _I’m_ trying to protect _myself_. How are you turning this around on me?”

“I’m not turning anything around on you, Harry! I’m sorry that I hurt you, okay? And I understand why you need to -- to _distance yourself_ from me. Alright? I get it. That doesn’t mean I have to like it.”

“You can’t expect me to just pretend like nothing ever happened between us. You can’t expect me to forget last night. Or the Quidditch pitch. Or any of the rest of it.”

“I don’t expect you to do that, you fucking git. Do you think _I’m_ just going to forget about any of that? Salazar’s balls, what kind of arsehole do you think I am?”

“The kind who can’t look me in the eye and tell me he doesn’t have feelings for somebody else.”

“I’m _sorry_!” Draco practically screamed.

If Harry would just slow down, let him _think_ , for fuck’s sake. He was so tired, and this was all so confusing, and honestly, he couldn’t make sense out of it, he just couldn’t. Being with Blaise wasn’t sitting well with him, but part of him thought he owed it to himself and to Blaise to see. And then another part of him thought he owed more to Harry, and then another part of him thought he just needed to fucking figure out what _he_ wanted, only it was all buried under so many other things he could hardly make it out.

Mostly he just felt exhausted, and sad.

“See, this is why we need to have a little time, Draco. This is no good. I’m no good as a friend when I feel like this, and you’re no good for me either, when you don’t – because you don’t – ugh,” He buried his head in his hands.

“Okay, yes,” Draco said, softly. “I get it.”

“Good,” Harry said. “And I think it goes without saying that we can’t be, you know. Sleeping together.”

“Sure. Without saying. Yes.”

Harry nodded. “Okay, well.”

“Well,” Draco said, not looking at him. He couldn’t.

Harry nodded again and left, and Draco found himself alone in his room, feeling like something vital had just been ripped out of his body.

That night he told Blaise he needed some time to think about things. A week, he said. Maybe two. That meant no sleeping together or, you know, _sleeping together_.

That meant that Draco was sleeping alone, which meant that he wasn’t sleeping so much as staring up at his canopy and fighting off waves of anxiety. Thankfully, he was so exhausted by Tuesday that he got a full seven hours that night. Wednesday, of course, he was back to reading about wizarding castles at three in the morning, but he figured one good night of sleep was better than none.

The days slogged by. Draco turned in a subpar Potions essay on Wednesday and tried to begin studying for a DADA practical exam that was to take place the following Monday. He was supposed to be casting a Patronus, and he was still shit at it. His was non-corporeal, sometimes. Other times nothing happened at all. He wished he could practice with Harry, who was better at it than the instructor. But that, of course, did not fit into Harry’s distancing plan.

Everyone else was treating Draco just the same as before, at least, even Weasley and Hermione, which meant they didn’t know. He wondered what Harry had told them about his fight with Blaise, if anything.

The Slytherins relaxed, too, when it became clear that Harry was not going to try to murder Blaise any time soon. Thursday night, Draco went to Pansy’s room only to find Harry sprawled out with Pansy on her bed, giggling over one of Pansy’s pervy romances. “Oh, sorry,” Draco found himself saying, even though Pansy was _his_ fucking friend.

“Oh, no, I was just leaving,” Harry said, his eyes bright and apologetic. He leapt up and slipped past Draco, giving him a sad excuse for a smile. Draco gave an attempted smile in return.

“You’re both fucking idiots, I swear to Salazar,” Pansy said after Harry was gone. “If either one of you comes in here whining again about –”

“Okay, well,” Draco interrupted her. “Never mind, then. I was going to ask you if you wanted to come with me to see my mother in London this weekend, but please, continue to yell at me instead.”

“Oh! Well. I take it back. Harry’s an idiot. You’re wonderful. And yes, I would like to go.”

“Fabulous. I’ll be glad of your company, you absolute bint.”

“Love you, too, darling,” Pansy said, blowing him a kiss as he stalked back out into the hallway and slammed the door behind him.

The only SASS obligation of the week was on Friday before classes. All the letters to professors had gone out Monday and Tuesday, and now they were hosting a breakfast discussion with faculty members in an vacant third-floor classroom. They’d ordered food from the kitchens, tidied the space, and transfigured some of the old, dusty furniture into comfortable chairs.

Harry spoke first, and Draco was struck by how good he was at this, how natural he was in front of a crowd, how relaxed and wholly himself. Draco was fine at public speaking, but it was formal, and he always had to use notes. Harry, though, just talked, like it was a casual conversation between him and another person.

Come to think of it, Harry was much _worse_ at actual conversations than he was at public speaking.

When it came time to take questions, the professors had quite a few more than the students had. Some of them very obviously didn’t like the idea. Professor Slughorn was one of these, and kept asking how this fit into the original founders’ intention, which was to have houses that brought out certain characteristics in students. Finally, Draco respectfully pointed out that one of the four founders (Salazar Slytherin) had actually left the school in a huff because of his disagreement with the other founders over blood status, so maybe the founders’ ideas should be _considered_ but not to the exclusion of other factors.

Harry nodded vehemently at Draco after he’d finished speaking, and their eyes caught, and Draco ached, from missing him. He needed to talk to him again, explain what he hadn’t been able to explain on Sunday. He needed Harry to know how much he liked him, how he felt lost without him.

But after the meeting with faculty members, they had to rush to class. After class, Harry disappeared, and Draco couldn’t seem to find him anywhere, and then Pansy came to Draco’s room with a packed bag, and it was time to go to London.

Sunday, when they came back, Draco thought. He’d talk to Harry on Sunday.

Blaise was there when Pansy arrived, and he remarked how nice a weekend in London would be. Draco didn’t invite him. It would defeat the purpose, after all, of putting space between them so that Draco could consider everything with a clear head.

Pansy and Draco apparated from outside the school gates to the foyer of the townhouse. It was every bit as elegant and formal as the Manor, but lighter and fresher, somehow. The curtains were draped in cream and sage instead of heavy damasks and dark primaries, and everything was at least a few centuries newer than the furniture at the Manor.

Draco’s mother had been spending more and more time in London, and it suited her. She seemed improved, somewhat, from the way she’d been last fall. Still not recovered, obviously, from Lucius’s death, but not quite as hopeless as before. Merlin, there had been weeks last fall where Draco suspected she hadn’t gotten out of bed at all, though she denied it. Draco thought, for the first time since his father had died, that she might eventually find some measure of happiness, despite the loss of him.

Her sister, Andromeda, was back in her life, along with two women who’d been close to the Black sisters growing up, and Draco knew that helped. They all came to dinner that evening, with Draco’s cousin Teddy in tow.

Pansy and Draco sat by, amused, listening to the four women talk about their days at school, about the trouble they’d gotten into and the boys they’d liked and which professors had been their favorites. The woman Draco had been most interested in meeting, Theodosia, reminded him of Pansy. She was saying wholly inappropriate, yet clever, things, but the others only looked at her fondly and laughed and rolled their eyes.

Teddy was a tiny thing with bright green hair, until later that night when Draco was holding him, and he suddenly became blonde. “Oh, he likes you,” said Andromeda. “He’s taken on your hair.”

Draco looked down at the baby. “He’s got quite a smile, with those teeth.” Teddy had two tiny teeth jutting up from the center of his bottom gumline, and was trying his best to get things in his mouth, to rub against his gums.

“He’s been up all night lately, cutting those bloody things, and now he’s working on the top ones. Sweet Merlin, and I’d thought I was done with teething,” Andromeda said, smoothing back Teddy’s white-blonde forelock.

“He’s got a lot of hair for a baby.”

Andromeda smiled. “Came out that way. Big spiky mess of hair, right from the start. All different colors, like his mother.” She left Draco, then, and drifted back over to Narcissa, putting a hand on her back, and Draco watched, his chest full of warmth, as his mother leaned against her. They were quite different, the two of them, but there was a sameness in the way they smiled and in the shape of their faces, and in the way they held themselves. You could tell they were sisters.

Pansy was leaning over the back of the sofa. “You seem bizarrely comfortable holding that thing,” she remarked.

“That _thing_ is my cousin, Pans. And he’s quite nice,” Draco said, as Teddy began gnawing on his knuckles and drooling everywhere.

“He’s eating you.”

Draco laughed. “He’s teething, you bint.”

Theodosia came ambling over, a glass of wine in her hand. She had a cap of short blonde hair and was dressed in muggle clothes – a smart leather jacket and slim-fitting jeans. “So, Pansy, I hear you’re a writer.”

Pansy turned red – one of the first times Draco’d ever seen that – and glared at Draco. “Oh?”

The older woman patted Pansy’s shoulder. “Don’t worry, he only told me because I write, too. You may have heard of me.”

Pansy blinked, and Draco could practically see the wheels turning in her head.

“My pen name is Misty Reeve,” she said.

Pansy’s jaw dropped. “ _You’re_ Misty Reeve?” she managed.

Theodosia nodded. “I didn’t use my real name for obvious reasons.”

“But Misty’s – you’re – you wrote _The Heart of a Dragon_!”

“I did.”

“Holy fuck,” Pansy breathed.

Theodosia laughed. “I see you’ve got the vocabulary down. Might I see some of your work, sometime?”

“Well, yes! Of course!” Pansy said.

Draco, chuckling, got off the couch, trying to juggle Teddy’s squirmy, squishy body, and left them to their conversation.

He’d been waiting on that all night. He’d just found out a week or two ago that Theodosia wrote erotica after _he_ mentioned in a letter to his mother that Pansy had been spending half her time that year locked up in her room, scribbling away in her notebooks. He hadn’t told his mother exactly what sort of thing Pansy’d been writing. Still, his mother replied, telling him about Theodosia, and indicating that she wrote ‘romance novels, of the explicit variety.’ Draco knew immediately that he had to introduce the two.

“Pansy looks excited,” his mother remarked. “The two of them are cut from the same cloth, aren’t they?”

“Indeed. I could hardly believe some of the things that came out of Theodosia’s mouth at dinner,” Draco said, grinning.

His mother snickered. “Yes, well. You should’ve seen her when she was a girl. She was even worse. For her, this is downright tame.”

He looked into his mother’s eyes, at the way they creased at the corners, rather deeply these days. Those creases, though, were from smiling. And that meant they were good ones. “I’m glad you’re happy,” he said. “Well… _less sad_ , anyway.”

“Me too,” she said, putting a finger in Teddy’s pudgy hand. Teddy promptly pulled her finger to his mouth.

When everyone left, Draco and Pansy stood in the empty kitchen munching on leftover crudités and sipping from what was left of the wine bottles. “You wanker. I can’t believe you kept Theodosia a secret from me.”

Draco laughed. “Can’t tell you everything, Pansy.”

“Yes, well. I feel like you don’t tell me a thing these days.”

“I assume you’re referencing my love life?”

“Your _many_ love lives,” Pansy corrected.

“See, this is why I don’t talk to you.”

“Oh, tell me. I’ll be nice, I promise.”

Draco sighed. He supposed it would be helpful to talk about it with someone other than Harry or Blaise.

“I’m in a pickle,” he said.

“No shit,” said Pansy. “So, what, just the usual ‘torn between two lovers’ situation? Trying to pick? Lucky you.”

“Its not as simple as that, obviously.”

“No, of course not,” Pansy said, rolling her eyes.

“I talked to Blaise, and he said he wants to be with me, but, you know, not publicly yet.”

“Yet?”

“Until Reginald goes away.”

“Oh, Merlin, who the fuck knows when that’ll be.”

“Blaise seems to think soon.”

“Well, he would say that, wouldn’t he? And Harry? What does he say?”

“I don’t know how upset with me he still is. I don’t know if he still wants to be with me. And I’m worried that even if he _does_ , he won’t want me long-term.”

Pansy looked confused. “So? Who cares? You’re eighteen, you idiot. The chance of you ending up with anybody you date right now is slim to none.”

Draco huffed. “Mother and Father stayed together after school.”

“Your mother and father were hardly typical, Draco. Salazar’s bollocks, they never even fucked anyone else their whole lives.”

“Ew, gross. Please don’t say things like that about my mother." Draco wouldn't think about it, he wouldn't, no no no. "Anyway, what if I want that? What if I want to settle down young? I might like to, you know.”

Pansy leaned against him and elbowed him affectionately. “You fucking sap,” she said.

“Fuck off. Not all of us have hearts of lead.”

“Mm, sad for you,’ she said. “Much easier when you do.” She jumped up onto the counter and popped a carrot stick in her mouth, crunching and swinging her legs. “So, which one, then? Since apparently we’re husband hunting instead of just, you know, casually fucking people like a normal eighteen-year-old boy.”

“I’m not _husband hunting_ , goddamnit –”

“Fine, fine. Which one, though?”

“You know how much I liked Blaise earlier this year. You know how much I wanted him to like me. And now he does. Plus, I know him. I know how he works, and I know he’s serious about this simply because he’s said it. He doesn’t say things like this, not ever, so it must be real. Right?”

Pansy rolled her eyes. “Dunno. It’s Blaise. For each thing he says, there’s a hundred other things he _doesn’t_ say. Who the fuck knows? But you’re still not answering my question, Draco. Who do you _want_?”

An image flashed through his head, of the night he was trying very hard not to remember, of Harry running a finger along his eyebrow, telling him about his eyes and his hair and how good he smelled. Telling him about the pink birthmark that he liked to kiss. Harry, falling against him in the Common Room, kissing his mouth. Harry, petting his hair until he fell asleep. Harry, telling him he was a good person. “Harry. I want Harry,” he said, and then froze and blinked. He hadn't meant to say it, hadn't thought he even had an answer. But now that he'd said it, everything seemed to click into place. It was obvious, wasn't it, what he really wanted.

Pansy’s mouth stretched into a wide grin. “See? Was that so hard, you git? God, you always make everything so difficult.”

“But what if he doesn’t like me anymore, because of the Blaise thing? Or what if he doesn’t like me enough?”

“One, he does. Two, grow a pair! Stop being afraid of everything! Live a little, Draco, damn it!”

“I have a pair, Pansy, as you very well know.”

“Har har,” she said.

“But maybe you’re right.”

“I’m always right.”

The next day, Pansy and Draco bundled up in coats and gloves and walked the neighborhood. It was just a little enclave in Chelsea, surrounded on all sides by muggles, so they ended up on muggle streets after a few minutes. Thankfully, they were dressed somewhat appropriately. Draco was wearing trousers and a jumper, and Pansy was wearing a pleated skirt and a blouse. They seemed to be less casual than most of the muggles, but no one was looking at them strangely.

“Oh, Draco!” Pansy cried, pointing. “An internet café!”

“Internet? What do they serve there?”

Pansy started laughing. “Come on.”

She dragged them inside and Draco looked around, confused, as she handed muggle money to someone sitting behind a high desk. It smelled a little bit like body odor inside, and a little bit like coffee. The walls were painted a jarring lime green, and the floor was thinly carpeted.

“What is this?” he asked. “How do you know about this? Is there no food?”

“You’ll see,” she whispered.

The muggle behind the desk, who had silver rings all up and down her ears and one through her eyebrow and another through her lip, handed them each a card with a bunch of numbers and letters on it. “That’s your login information,” she said.

Draco had no idea what the fuck was happening, so he let Pansy lead him to one of the chairs that was sitting in front of the long table with shiny cubes on top.

“Internet,” Pansy said, whispering and looking around. “Is a kind of muggle magic. I found out about it this summer, when I stayed with my cousin Florina in Paris. You can talk to people on it, and ask questions, and do all sorts of things.”

She proceeded to clack away at the letters on a plastic clacky-board that sat in front of the box, and he realized her box was now flashing and making strange noises. “I’ve logged in and now I’m dialing up,” she said. “There,” she continued, as some writing appeared on the glass part of the box. _Yahoo_. Whatever the hell that was. “Ask me a question.”

“Um, yes, alright. How about _what are the three uses of bezoars_?”

“A muggle question, dummy,” whispered Pansy.

“Oh. I don’t know any,” Draco said. “Or, no, wait! How about, _how far away is the moon_? Do they know that?”

Pansy shrugged. “Let’s see,” she said. She used the clacky-board to write the question in a box that had appeared on the glass, and then all of a sudden, hundreds of words popped up. She used a little clacky thing to point to one of them, and then a different picture came up, and it said 238,900 miles.

“That’s brilliant!” Draco exclaimed. “How about, _who is the most beautiful man in the world_?”

“It’s not going to say _you_ , you wanker,” Pansy said, laughing and entering the question anyway. She used the clacker to point at something and a name came up. “George Clooney,” she said. “Whoever the fuck that is.”

Draco shrugged.

“You can use yours,” Pansy said. “Just type this stuff into the boxes.” She thrust the other paper with numbers and letters in front of him.

Slowly, Draco found the numbers and letters on the clacky board and then stared. Nothing happened.

“You have to hit this,” Pansy said, pointing to something that said “Enter”.

Draco hit it and then he got a picture of the purple _Yahoo_. He thought about what question to ask it. Slowly, he found letters for “How to stop insomnia”.

Pansy had to show him how to use the little clicker (the _mouse_ , she called it, which was stupid, because it was obviously not an animal) to point at things, and an hour and a half later, Draco had lots of good muggle ideas about how to sleep better. He wished he’d brought parchment to write it all down, but he thought he'd remember most of it.

Pansy then showed him how to get in things called ‘chat rooms’ where muggles from everywhere were writing about a wide variety of topics, although a common theme appeared to be sex. It was, all in all, great fun.

That night, they took Draco’s mother out to a French restaurant that Pansy’s parents had recommended, wizard-run, of course, and told her all about the café that didn’t have any food. She listened intently and said she’d never heard of such a thing.

Draco fell asleep easily afterward (he’d barely slept Friday night, so he was quite tired), thinking about all the funny conversations going on in the chat room, and how there was a whole world out there he’d never known. He wondered if maybe he might, in time, get to know it a little.

He dreamt of Harry telling him about the way he laughed.

On Sunday, they packed up their things and kissed Draco’s mother goodbye and apparated to the gates of Hogwarts. “I had a marvelous time,” Pansy remarked as they waited for one of the house elves to come open the gates. “We ought to live in London after school. Except, oh wait, you and Potter might be married by then and living in the Manor.”

“Shut up,” Draco said, feeling himself blush. Merlin, he’d never thought about anything like that, and it seemed beyond foolish to do so. Besides, Harry would never live in the Manor, no way.

“You’re going to talk to him, yes?” Pansy asked.

“Yes,” said Draco.

“Today?”

Draco thought about this. Surely he needed time to plan, to figure out what to say. “This week?”

“Do it today, Draco,” Pansy said. “You never know what might happen in the meantime. Do it today.”

Draco sighed. “Yes, alright. Today.”

An elf cranked open the gates and they walked through, crossing the long bridge to the castle and making their way up the stairs to the Eighth-Year Common Room. Pansy left him where the boys' rooms split off from the girls', and Draco hauled his suitcase into his room, tossing it on the bed. His room was empty – no Blaise, no Weasley, and, of course, no Finch-Fletchley. He looked into the small mirror on the wall above the sink and smoothed his hair. Then he brushed his teeth, just in case, and then he took a deep breath and made his way to Harry’s room.

Michael Corner was the only one there. “Not sure where Ernie is,” he said. “Harry’s with Dean and Seamus and Weasley somewhere.”

“Oh, thanks,” Draco said, feeling relieved and disappointed all at once. He was turning to go when he heard a voice.

“Oi, Draco!” cried Seamus, coming down the hall. He was giving Dean a piggy-back ride, and the two were laughing and red-faced. “How goes it!”

“It goes,” said Draco, unable to keep the grin off his face. The two of them had become a couple basically overnight. He supposed it was easy when you’d always been together anyway. He couldn’t help but envy how happy they seemed, how settled. That was what he wanted, and fuck Pansy for teasing him about it. He didn’t necessarily want to be _married_ , for Merlin’s sake. He just wanted to be with someone who made him happy. Preferably forever. “Harry with you?”

“They’re coming in a minute,” said Seamus, practically flinging Dean off of his back. “How much do you weigh, Dean? Fer fuck’s sake.”

Dean laughed. “Not my fault you lost.”

“Want to wait inside, Malfoy?” Seamus offered.

“Oh, sure, yes,” Draco said, feeling his heart pick up speed once more. Draco sat down on the floor in front of Harry’s bed and listened as Dean talked about the wild party they’d had in the Room of Requirement the night before.

“You should have been there, mate. It was mad. Hannah Abbott’s single again, did you know?”

“I thought she might be,” Draco said.

“Well, if you didn’t already know, you’d have figured it out last night. She was snogging _everybody_ , I mean, _whew_. It was something.”

Draco tried to laugh, and it came out a little strangled. Merlin, he was getting so nervous. Where the fuck were Harry and Weasley? He just wanted to get this over with.

“Oh, and even Corner here showed up,” Seamus said, pointing. Corner grinned, embarrassed. He was still cute in a slightly creepy, depressive sort of way.

“And snogged the hell out of Katie Bell during spin-the-bottle,” Dean said.

“That’s what you _do_ during spin-the-bottle, Thomas,” Michael said, flushing.

“I don’t think it’s a rule that you have to snog for ten minutes or choke them with your tongue. Is it, Seamus?”

“No, Dean. I don’t believe it is.”

“I’m amazed you even noticed,” Corner said. “Since you two were making out on the couch in the corner all night.”

“Yes, well,” Seamus said. “I _am_ irresistible.”

“You are,” said Dean, leaning over to give him a quick kiss.

“Sweet Salazar, are they always like this?” Draco asked Corner.

“Worse,” said Corner, grimacing.

Just then, the door banged open, and Draco felt his heart thud painfully in his chest. He braced himself for seeing Harry. He’d already worked through what he was going to say, sort of. He’d sit, talk with the other boys for a couple of minutes first, and _then_ ask Harry if they might talk somewhere privately. That way it would seem more casual. Not like such a big deal.

And then he’d say what he’d planned to say, and wait to see how Harry would respond.

But when Harry walked in holding Ginny Weasley’s hand, all Draco’s plans went out the window.


	14. What You Get

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry's take on the weekend

Soy un perdedor  
I'm a loser baby, so why don't you kill me?  
(Get crazy with the cheeze whiz)  
Soy un perdedor  
I'm a loser baby, so why don't you kill me?  
(Drive-by body pierce)

**Loser / Beck**

* * *

Harry was an idiot.

It wasn’t like this was new information; he’d known for a long time he was an idiot. But today he’d demonstrated an exceptional level of idiocy that astounded even him.

Today, and last night. It had all started last night.

He’d been having a terrible weekend, of course, considering that he had to walk around knowing that Draco was in love with Blaise. He’d moped around Friday evening, hoping and not hoping to run into Draco, until dinnertime, when Daphne mentioned that Draco had gone to London for the weekend. Pansy too, Daphne said. Harry noticed, then, that Blaise also wasn’t at dinner, and he realized that Blaise had probably gone along to London as well, and he and Draco were probably having a fabulous time together, snogging and sucking each other’s cocks.

This made Harry quite nauseous, and he had to leave the table, and he went upstairs and considered running away from school, although he had nowhere but Grimmauld Place to go, and wasn’t that depressing? He sat around for a while, crying like a giant wanker, and then wiped his eyes and decided to handle his heartbreak like a man, and asked Seamus if he had any firewhiskey. Seamus always had firewhiskey, so he said yes. Harry, Dean, Ron and Seamus sat around in Harry’s room drinking from the bottle and talking and getting pissed, until around midnight when Hermione came to rescue Ron. Then Harry was left with Dean and Seamus, who were in a sickeningly happy honeymoon phase of their relationship, and Harry just couldn’t handle it, so he went to bed.

He woke up hungover and moped about the castle while everyone else went to Hogsmeade. He cried some more, like the little bitch that he was, and then rode his broom around in the cold for a while.

When he came back in, Seamus grabbed him and hauled him to the Room of Requirement, where there was apparently a top-secret party going on. Top-secret in what sense, Harry didn’t know, because everyone from their year was there, along with a dozen or so other, younger students, Ginny and Luna included, as well as Ginny’s dramatic roommate Carolyn, who was crying. Harry thought maybe he should go hang out with her; they could sob together -- it would be such fun.

Instead, Harry set about getting pissed once more, because why not. He played spin-the-bottle and snogged everyone from Luna to Hannah Abbot, who straddled his lap and got him uncomfortably hard, which was her way of announcing to the world that she was single, apparently. Ernie was seated next to Daphne, of course, and was looking at Hannah like maybe he’d dodged a bullet.

More drinking and more snogging, and the night started to get a little hazy. He was pretty certain Hannah had let him touch her boobs at some point, and also, he was almost positive that Seamus had given Dean a hand job on the couch. Other things probably happened, too, although he couldn’t remember them as well.

When Carolyn stopped crying, she and Ginny decided to play spin-the-bottle, and Ginny scooted in next to Harry and laughed as Katie Bell spun and got Harry. Katie was a surprisingly good kisser, or maybe Harry was just really drunk and lonely, but it seemed like a really good kiss, and Ron ended up pulling him back to his side of the circle by his jumper.

“Mate, you must _chill_ ,” he said, laughing. Harry spun and landed on Neville.

“Oh, Merlin help me,” Harry said, approaching Neville cautiously.

“ ‘S _fine_ , Harry,” said Neville, who was absolutely smashed. “Jus’ a kiss. Ready, one-two-three go.”

Neville snogged him with messy tongue and Harry could honestly say it was disgusting. “Love you, Nev,” Harry said as he moved back to his spot. “Don’t ever want to kiss you again.”

“ ‘M a good kisser!” he cried, offended. Hannah Abbott grabbed him to double-check.

“Not bad,” she declared, as Neville grinned out at the group crookedly.

On and on and on, more drinking and more snogging and more snogging and more drinking, and then Harry’s spin landed on Ginny. He was quite wrecked by that point, and what started as an almost apologetic, ‘let’s-get-this-over-with’ sort of kiss ended up getting a little intense, until Ron, once again, pulled Harry back by the jumper and said, “You must _chill_ mate, especially when it comes to Ginny.”

“Oh, right,” Harry said, shaking his head to clear it. But it was too late, because that kiss set something off in him, maybe muscle memory, maybe actual memories, but _something_ , and he found himself stealing glances at Ginny and noticing how shiny her hair was, and how pretty her smile was, and how fun she was. She had always been fun, even in bed. She’d laughed a lot.

And oh no, what a slippery slope that was, because now he was thinking about Ginny naked, about her breasts and the taut muscles of her stomach, and her firm thighs, and how they felt wrapped around him, and then he was getting uncomfortably hard, right there in the spin-the-bottle circle. “Erm,” he’d said, mostly to himself. “Motherfucker.”

He’d leapt up, fast as an inebriated man could leap, and practically ran out of the room, thinking it might be nice to go have a good wank in bed to finish off this disaster of a night. Only then Ginny was yelling for him out in the corridor, and he turned, and before he could say ‘what?’, she was kissing him and kissing him, and then somehow, they were making their way back to the Eighth-Year dorms hand-in-hand, and then Ginny was in his bed, and their clothes were all coming off, and it all sort of blurred together, but basically, he’d gone down on her and she’d bucked against him and then she’d sucked his cock, and fuck, they’d never done that before, but they did it then, and it was pretty fucking great, getting your cock sucked, no matter how ill-advised the situation surrounding said cock-sucking was.

Then they’d sort of passed out in a naked, sticky heap, and Harry had woken up with a banging headache, holding her. “Fuck,” he’d whispered under his breath, because he had _not_ meant to do this.

But it was _Ginny_ , and she had said a lot of stuff the night before about loving him and missing him and he might have said some of that stuff back, and then she’d sucked his cock, and so he supposed she was his girlfriend again, maybe. He was pretty sure that was how this went.

And what did it matter, anyway, since Draco loved Blaise? Since Draco and Blaise were together in London all weekend, probably doing the same fucking thing, and also actually fucking. It didn’t even matter, Harry thought. He might as well.

So when she woke up, they talked about how crazy the night before had been, and then they used their hands and fingers to make each other come again, and then they went down to breakfast in the Great Hall.

Ron seemed exceptionally pleased by this turn of events, although Hermione looked worried, which worried Harry, because Hermione had much better sense than Ron. All the former Gryffindors, including Dean, seemed happy to see them sitting together, and all of them had always loved Ginny, so it seemed so simple, all of it clicking back into place.

Only, Harry was having trouble convincing the churning feeling deep in his gut that this was for the best. It seemed to disagree, vehemently, and would not go away.

Harry, Ron, Hermione, Neville, Dean and Seamus went back to the Gryffindor tower after lunch, just to hang out and see some of their old friends, and ended up making a day of it, playing chess and sitting around and it felt so much like sixth year that Harry could almost pretend it was.

Ginny pulled him aside as everyone began heading back to the Eighth-Year tower, and asked if she could sleep in his bed again. “I know you have trouble sleeping, and besides,” she said, bringing her mouth close to his ear. “I wouldn’t mind tasting your come again.”

Well, he was an eighteen-year-old boy. He knew that excuse only went so far, but _come on_ , who was going to say no to that? And besides, what did it matter? It didn’t matter. Harry could tell Ginny ‘no’ until the end of time, and it still wouldn’t bring Draco back.

“Sure,” he said, kissing her. She grinned and collected some pajamas and walked back with him, holding his hand. And then they’d opened the door, and there was Draco, sitting on the floor against his bed, and he turned, smiling tightly, and then saw Ginny and Harry. Harry knew the exact moment Draco saw their joined hands, because all the color drained from his face.

Harry hastily dropped Ginny’s hand, but it was too late. Draco stood and mumbled an excuse and practically ran out of the room. Harry stood there, feeling sick to his stomach, and Ginny was looking at him curiously, but he couldn’t make his face behave normally. He was pretty sure he was grimacing.

They sat and talked with everyone for a while, and Harry’s head wasn’t in the conversation at all. It was with Draco. How could Draco have looked like that, when he had been with Blaise all weekend, probably balls deep inside of Blaise, if Harry was honest with himself. “Who was in London with Draco this weekend?” Harry found himself asking, even though he hadn’t meant to at all. Sometimes, it was like some foreign entity possessed him and just _said_ things without his permission.

“Pansy,” said Seamus.

“And Blaise?” asked Harry, because why stop now?

“Er, no, I don’t think so,” Seamus said, frowning.

“No, Blaise went to home this weekend,” said Dean.

And now he was stuck here, in his bed, with Ginny, and even though she took off all her clothes, and wrapped her mouth around his cock, and was, probably, his girlfriend again, he didn’t feel happy. Not even about getting a blowjob. That didn’t mean he didn’t come, because he did, and Ginny was actually very good at this, which was disturbing (had she had practice?). But Harry couldn’t help but wonder, as she drifted off to sleep against his chest, how in the hell he had managed to fuck up his whole life in a matter of twenty-four hours.


	15. What You Need

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Draco decides to work on himself

Listen as your day unfolds  
Challenge what the future holds  
Try and keep your head up to the sky  
Lovers, they may 'cause you tears  
Go ahead release your fears

Stand up and be counted  
Don't be ashamed to cry

You gotta be  
You gotta be bad, you gotta be bold  
You gotta be wiser, you gotta be hard  
You gotta be tough, you gotta be stronger

You gotta be cool, you gotta be calm  
You gotta stay together  
All I know, all I know, love will save the day

**_You Gotta Be_** **/ Des'ree**

* * *

Draco’s secret relationship with Blaise lasted four days.

Sunday night, after seeing Harry with Ginny, Draco marched right back to his room and, seeing Blaise there, said, “Let’s give this a try.” Blaise looked so happy that Draco almost felt happy, too, but not quite.

They tumbled into bed, and within moments, Blaise’s mouth was wrapped tightly around Draco’s cock, his tongue setting off sparks of pleasure all along Draco’s body, and his long, neat fingers were in Draco’s arse, massaging the spot he knew sent Draco spinning. Draco had seen stars when he came, and then Blaise gave him almost no reprieve, immediately pulling Draco’s legs up over his shoulders and fucking into him mercilessly. Draco had come again in hot, white streaks, all over both their chests, right after he felt Blaise’s spunk fill his arse.

When they were done, Blaise rolled over and they looked at each other and laughed, and then Blaise kissed him and spelled them clean. Draco spelled his own curtains closed, then closed Blaise’s, and then passed the fuck out and slept until 4 a.m. when Blaise’s alarm went off.

Monday consisted of Draco eating Blaise’s arse and then slamming his dick into it (a new thing for them; Blaise had never bottomed before) during their morning free period, and then, while everyone was at dinner, they engaged in an interesting dual-blowjob-slash-fingering endeavor, which was surprisingly satisfying. That night, it was back to the basics, and Blaise fucked Draco like his life depended on it. Despite their sex-marathon, Draco didn’t sleep that night. While he was awake and staring forlornly at the canopy above Blaise’s bed, he refused to think about Harry, or how he’d been at the Gryffindor table, seated next to Ginny, that morning.

Draco was tired on Tuesday, but that didn’t stop him from sucking Blaise off while everyone was at lunch, and it didn’t stop Blaise from licking him everywhere that night, licking into his arse and along his shaft, and around the tip of his cock, before taking his whole cock into his mouth and swallowing down his spunk and then, once again, fucking Draco. That night, Draco fell asleep right away, but unfortunately, woke up at two in the morning.

His brain was muzzy but somehow _stimulated_ (this was the worst possible combination; at least when he was awake with a clear head, he could read or even try to do schoolwork). He thought of sucking Blaise’s cock to wake him up, but decided against it. Honestly, he didn’t even feel like sex.

He went back to his own bed (he’d have to go there in two hours anyway) and tried to sleep. But then instead of sleeping, he thought of Harry, and his brain was too fucking soupy to stop, and he thought himself into a deep, dark hole of regret and hurt and then there was no way he was going back to sleep ever.

He got up out of bed at 4:30, thinking about the muggle sleep advice he’d gotten from the internet café. One of the things he’d read over and over was that exercising consistently helped you sleep. Draco hadn’t ever really exercised in his life besides when he’d played Quidditch (oh, he supposed the ballroom dance classes his mother made him take for-fucking-ever counted, too).

But he knew, vaguely, about an underground track and weight-lifting equipment underneath the Quidditch locker rooms. Some of the more serious players, those who talked about maybe going professional one day, used it.

Draco didn’t own any of those slippery trousers that some people wore, but he knew Blaise did. And he figured that since he was letting Blaise fuck him multiple times a day, he was allowed to borrow them. He rummaged through Blaise’s things until he found a pair. They were a little long on him but not too bad. He did have one pair of trainers that he never wore, so he put those on, and then put on one of his white undershirts. When he’d finished, he felt very muggle-ish, but comfortable.

He threw on a heavy cloak and made his way out of the castle and across the frozen tundra that was the Quidditch pitch. It was still dark out, so he used his wand to light the way. He entered the locker rooms, which were, frankly, creepy at this time of day, and very dark, but quickly found the stairwell leading underground. It was past the last shower stall, behind a plain wooden door.

Downstairs was even darker. He threw the light from his wand into the far corner, and expanded it, creating a big ball that lit up the whole area.

He looked around. There was, indeed, an oval track down here, painted red and green. There were also some strange weight machines that looked to be about a thousand years old.

Draco had never run, really. He’d always considered it idiotic; that was what brooms were for. And trains. And floos. And apparition, etcetera. But, the muggles apparently loved to do this shit just for fun. Supposedly it was good for your cardiovascular health, which had something to do with the heart, maybe? He really ought to make an effort to understand all this if he was going to become a Healer.

He didn’t really know _how_ to run, at least for extended periods of time, so he sprinted down one side of the track and back, and then thought he was going to pass out because he was breathing so hard. Surely that kind of running was not sustainable for more than ten seconds. He tried to do the same thing, only a little slower, and made it around the entire track once.

Ugh, fucking hell. Muggles were morons. This was not fun, not in any conceivable sense of the word.

He tried slowing down even more, sort of a slow-motion sprint, and this, he was able to keep up for four laps before he collapsed into a heap.

Goddamnit, surely that was enough.

He looked over at the weight machines skeptically. They were made of cracked leather and rusty metal, and looked like they’d malfunction immediately and kill you.

Maybe he was done for the day.

“Hello?” came a voice from the stairs. “Is someone here?”

“Hi, yes,” he called back, wondering who the fuck was coming down here at what was probably five in the morning.

A head of bright red hair poked around the corner. A lip curled. “Malfoy?” Ginevra Weasley began. “What in the fuck are you doing down here?”

He straightened his spine and tilted up his chin. “I’m running.”

She snorted. “Right. Seriously, why are you here? Are you going to hex me or something?”

“Yes,” he said, rolling his eyes. “I’ve been waiting down here all night because I just _knew_ you’d be here at this godforsaken hour of the morning, doing whatever it is you plan on doing, and I thought that was the easiest way to get you.”

“You’re not joking, then? You’re…running?”

“Yes. I’ve run six laps already,” he exaggerated. It was really more like five and a half.

“That’s a mile and a half. What’s your time?”

“Time?”

“Yeah, how fast did you run?”

“Fast,” he said.

“You have no idea, do you?” she said, looking amused. “I can do a six-and-a-half minute mile. A mile’s four laps, by the way.”

“Oh, I’m sure I was going at least that fast,” said Draco. “Probably faster.” That was probably a lie. Maybe. Honestly, he had no idea.

“Hm. Okay, sure.” She looked him over. “Those shoes are shit for running. You’ve got to get a muggle pair if you want good ones. There aren’t any decent wizarding ones.”

“Wonderful, yes, I’ll run right out and get a pair of _muggle shoes_ , thank you very much for the advice,” he said, striding over to the ancient-looking machines. “Since you’re such an expert, why don’t you tell me what in the world these are.”

“Oh, Merlin, don’t even think about using them. I don’t think they work anymore, and you’re likely to get tetanus. Just stick to the free weights.”

“And where would I find those?” he asked, hating everything about this.

She sighed. “Come here,” she said, gesturing. She led him to the corner of the room where little iron sticks with round circles on the end were sitting. “Here,” she said. “Do you…you probably don’t know what to do, do you?”

“I’m sure I can figure it out,” he said imperiously.

“Yeah, and then you’ll sprain your delicate wrists or something,” she said. “I’ll show you a few things, alright?”

“Fine,” he said.

“I’m guessing you’re not trying to bulk up?”

“Like, look beefy? Merlin, no,” he said.

She laughed. “Right. So.” She looked around, then handed him two of the weights. “Try these, they’re only ten pounds, but you can do a high number of repetitions.” She considered him. “Maybe not so high, I dunno.” She picked up another set of weights, and hers said five.

“Mine are twice the size of yours,” he pointed out.

“Right, because I definitely don’t want to bulk up. I want leaner muscles.”

“You can…pick? What kind of muscles you want?”

“Sort of. Here, just…” She faced him, and held her weights down at her thighs. She was actually quite fit, now that Draco looked at her in her shorts and fitted t-shirt. She did have very lean muscles. Salazar, he hated her with every fiber of his being.

She brought the weights up to her chest, and then lowered them again. “This is a simple bicep curl. I usually do about three sets of twenty. Make sure to hold your elbows still, kind of lock them into your sides.”

He tried, and she nodded. “Good, yeah. Just like that.” They lifted the weights for a while, and it was kind of boring and wasn’t even very difficult, up until the second set of twenty, when his arms started to burn.

She showed him a few other things – for shoulders, for triceps, for his back – and then taught him how to do something called a plank, which seemed silly but then made him tremble and shake. Then they did sit-ups, two different kinds.

Finally, when they finished that, she nodded. “You did alright. I’m going to run now, so.”

“Of course,” he said. “I – thank you, Ginevra. For your help.” He thought he might’ve tasted bile in the back of his throat as he said it.

She smirked. “You’re welcome.” Then she set off along the track, going much faster than he had been going, and he hurried up the stairs so he wouldn’t have to watch her anymore.

The exercise had somehow woken up his brain, so it felt much clearer. He went to breakfast with more of an appetite than he usually had, and inhaled two pieces of toast and a few sausages and some porridge, too. Blaise remarked that maybe he was going through another growth spurt, and Draco rolled his eyes, but didn’t tell him about the exercise, because it was a bit embarrassing. Blaise whispered that they could skip lunch again today, but Draco said no, he needed to eat and also study, and Blaise looked cross with him, but didn’t argue.

The alert feeling lasted for a few hours, but after lunch, Draco felt like he’d run smack into a wall. He could hardly keep his eyes open. He wished he had Harry, to pet him until he napped. He didn’t, though, so he forced himself to stay awake during Muggle Studies and then went to the library (the regular one, not the one in the Eighth-Year tower). He stopped in the kitchens beforehand, for a cup of tea, and that helped him get through his reading for the day.

Dinner passed by in a blur of chit-chat and trying not to notice Ginny Weasley by Harry’s side at the other end of the table. He met with Hermione in the library after dinner to work through some SASS-related things, and when they finished, Draco had to concentrate to put one foot in front of the other on the way back up to the Eighth-Year tower. “You look shattered,” Hermione said, eyeing him with a frown. “Are you alright?”

“Fine, fine,” he said. “Tired.”

“Are you and Harry...are you okay?”

“No,” he said. “Not really.”

She nodded. “I’m sorry, for what that’s worth. I hope you patch things up.”

He looked over at her, at her expression of concern, and was struck by how truly kind she was. He hated himself a little for how he’d been to her all those years. “Thank you, Granger. I hope so, too.”

They entered the Common Room, and the first thing Draco noticed was that Harry was sitting with Ron at a little table, and Ginny was nowhere to be seen. The second thing he noticed was that Blaise was talking to Hannah Abbot, who was leaning against the wall, looking up at him with a little smirk.

On one hand, he didn’t think this meant anything. Blaise was a bit of a flirt – he’d always been – and so was Hannah. On the other hand, he hated that there was literally no reason, so far as Hannah knew, for her _not_ to flirt with Blaise, considering nobody knew that he was with Draco.

He wasn’t going to even try to do anything about it tonight. He was too tired.

He went back to his room and hardly managed to change into his pajamas before falling into a pitch-black nothingness that lasted until four in the morning. Apparently Blaise’s alarm had gotten Draco's body into a routine.

He felt refreshed, though. He’d probably fallen asleep around nine, which meant he’d gotten seven hours, despite the bizarrely early hour at which he’d awoken.

He slipped into Blaise’s athletic trousers and put on another white t-shirt and his trainers. He threw on his cloak and headed to the Quidditch locker rooms.

Ginevra didn’t make an appearance today, but Draco did a slow sprint for six laps, then did another two. Two whole miles. Hah, Weasley girl!

He lifted the weights like she’d showed him, then went back to the castle, feeling strangely light. Blaise’s curtains were still closed when he returned to their room, so he went to take his shower, and ran smack into Harry. Harry looked him up and down. “Trackies?” he asked, eying Draco’s trousers.

“Yes,” Draco said, angling his chin into the air. “I ran this morning.”

“Hm, that’s unexpected. But good for you,” Harry said, grinning. His eyes were really so beautiful. Draco tried very hard to not look down, at his bare chest, or at the towel draped around his narrow waist.

“Do you ever…exercise?”

Harry shrugged. “Ran sometimes, over the summer. Not a lot.”

“I’d run with you, if you ever wanted to. I don’t know that I’m very fast, though,” Draco said. “And you might want to, you know, because it’s supposed to help you sleep.”

“I’m not all that fast, either,” said Harry. “And how d’you know it helps you sleep?”

“All exercise does. I read about it on the internet.”

Harry burst out laughing. “How the fuck do _you_ know about the internet?”

“I know about a lot of things, Potter,” Draco said, edging past him into the shower room.

“Yeah,” Harry said, still grinning. “I guess so.”

Blaise was up when he came back to the room. He waited for Blaise to take a shower. Blaise was surprised to find him still there after he got back, and immediately assumed this meant they were going to fuck. He started kissing Draco’s neck, and Draco pushed him away. “Blaise, this isn’t going to work.”

Blaise looked at him with his brow furrowed. “Tell me this isn’t because I was _talking_ to Hannah last night, my god. Tell me you’re not that sort of boyfriend.”

“No, it’s not that,” said Draco. And it wasn’t really. He wasn’t mad about that. It was more what it made him realize. “It’s that I don’t want a secret relationship. I want a real one.”

“This _is_ a real one,” Blaise protested.

“I want to have one where I can hold somebody’s hand in the hallways!” Draco exclaimed. “I want to snog my boyfriend in the Common Room, and I don’t care if that’s silly, I want it. And I want everyone to know I’m taken. And I want to have the right to say something when I see my boyfriend flirting with someone else. Not that I _would_ say something, necessarily, but I want to have the right to. And I want people to _know_ I have the right to. I want a normal fucking relationship, Blaise.”

Blaise stared at him for a long moment. “You know I can’t give you that.”

“I know. And I’m not angry. I’m just saying, this isn’t what I want. It’s not going to work.”

“Fine,” said Blaise, picking up his books rather aggressively. “Fine. You make this big deal about how you want something more from me, and then I give it to you, and then you say it’s not enough. You’re impossible, Draco. Goddamnit. Nobody’s ever going to be perfect enough for you, you realize this, don’t you?”

“I’m not looking for perfection. I’m just looking for something real. Something honest.”

Blaise snorted. “Good luck, then, mate. Let me know when you come to your senses. Maybe I’ll still be interested.”

“I’m not going to change my mind about this.”

Blaise looked him over. “We’ll see.”

But Draco knew, as Blaise slipped out the door, that it was over for good.


	16. The Me Part of You & Me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry feels stuck, and the Eighth Years discuss Easter hols

Sometimes  
I feel the fear of  
Uncertainty stinging clear  
And I, can't help but ask myself how much I'll let the fear  
Take the wheel and steer

It's driven me before and seems to have a vague  
Haunting mass appeal  
But lately I'm beginning to find that I  
Should be the one behind the wheel

**_Drive_ ** **/ Incubus**

* * *

Harry and Ginny were together again. While they’d never officially _agreed_ on this, Harry began to tell people they were when asked, since it would’ve been absurd to deny it. They were sitting together at meals, studying together, fooling around, and sometimes, Ginny would sleep in his room. He tried not to make it an everyday thing – for some reason, it felt almost wrong to have her there, like Harry should still be keeping his bed available for Draco, just in case. He knew this was stupid, and that Draco didn't want to stay there anyway, but he felt the compulsion just the same.

Blaise and Padma had definitely broken up. Padma had been trudging about the castle, looking red-eyed and deflated, her sister hovering around her worriedly. Blaise was nowhere to be seen. Neither was Draco, and Harry didn’t like that one bit. He couldn’t help but notice that on more than one occasion, Draco and Blaise had been gone during meals, or were late to meals, and were conspicuously absent from the Common Room in the evenings.

Harry tried not to jump to conclusions, but at some point, it wasn’t jumping to a conclusion so much as no longer refusing to see what was right in front of his face.

Ginny stayed in his room on Wednesday night, despite Harry’s repeated hints that he could stand to get some studying done. He needed a break from her, was all. He wasn’t forthright about it, though, and she didn’t pick up on what he was really saying, offering, instead, to help him study. She left to get ready for bed, and Harry decided, as he was brushing his teeth, that he didn’t feel like messing around with her. He didn’t know why – it wasn’t like it didn’t feel good. But that was his feeling, and he was going to avoid it at all costs.

When Ginny came back to his room with her pajamas on, Harry yawned a lot – very conspicuously -- and (he felt very bad about this) ultimately faked falling asleep. Ginny fell asleep not long after, and then he opened his eyes, thinking about how he used to crave her presence at night, how holding her used to put him at ease. He thought about how much he’d loved her, how he’d wanted to marry her, someday. He wondered if there was something wrong with him, something that made him crave impossible things, something that would never let him rest or be happy.

He dreamt that night of creamy, pale skin, of sharp hip bones and fine, blonde hair trailing down to a waistband of black boxer-briefs. In his dream, he was kissing along the elegant line of a shoulder, to a stubbled jaw, and he’d been achingly hard. Then he awoke to a face-full of Ginny’s red hair, and it smelled, suddenly, too sweet, and she felt too soft in his arms, and everything just felt wrong and off and strange.

Harry rolled away from her sleeping form and wanted to cry. _Love her_ , he ordered himself. _You need to love her._ It shouldn’t have been difficult. He’d done it before, and it had been easy as breathing. But every time he tried to recapture those feelings, they seemed to have belonged to someone else entirely. A different Harry.

It was early, but there would be no going back to sleep. Harry checked his alarm clock and saw that it was 5:00. He sighed, and slipped out of bed, sticking his feet into his shower shoes and collecting his towel and shower caddy.

The showers were empty at this time of the morning, because who in their right mind was awake yet? Harry still had slivers of the dream stuck in his head, making him both horny _and_ sad, which was really a pitiful combination.

He ran a bar of soap over his half-hard prick, trying to ignore it, and then lathered up his hair. His own fucking shampoo reminded him of Draco now, because Draco said he liked how it smelled. Harry thought he should buy something different so that he didn’t have to feel this stupid pang in his chest every time he washed his hair.

He remembered how he’d wanked to thoughts of Draco after that first night of talking, how it had felt so foreign and thrilling all at once. He tried to recapture that feeling, the newness of it. How it felt like he was living in a darkened room, and someone had suddenly flicked a switch, and the light had come on. One moment he had been in pitch blackness, and then the next, it was glaringly bright, in full, almost painfully beautiful color.

He put a hand on the shower wall and leaned against it, let his head fall forward and his eyes close, let the hot water relax the tight muscles of his shoulders. His other hand drifted to his cock, and he thought of the feel of Draco’s hair beneath his fingertips. The mint and citrus smell. His mouth, his tongue. The clean lines of his throat, the feel of his skin.

Harry gasped and moved faster, memories pulsing against his closed lids. The feel of Draco against him, all long limbs and angles, smooth skin over hard muscle. The feel of their cocks pressed together, the charge that bolted through him when their eyes met.

He imagined it would be like to have Draco’s hand on his cock, then wondered what it would be like to touch another man’s, whether it would feel different from his own. Then, he imagined what it would be like if Draco let him kiss down his muscled chest, down to his narrow waist, and down further. What it would be like to lick a cock, to take it into his mouth the way Ginny’d taken his. What it would taste like on his tongue.

He would have done it. He would have done it if Draco had let him. He wouldn’t have even asked for the same in return. He thought Draco probably tasted like clean sweat, and imagined what it would feel like, if Draco came in his mouth, how _that_ would taste.

He came without warning, hot and fast over his hand, and then he slumped against the wall, angry with himself. Stupid to think it. Stupid to do that. Fucking hell.

He stood for a few long moments, chest heaving, trying not to lose himself in the heavy sadness that came sweeping over him in the aftermath of his orgasm. When it passed, he made sure he was well-rinsed, and then stepped out of the shower, toweling himself off. He shaved at one of the sinks afterward – Harry was cursed with facial hair that already grew in thick and fast, so that he couldn’t ever really skip a day. He’d tried shaving charms, but they never seemed to go close enough, and he always felt like he had a five-o’clock-shadow by noon.

He stuck his glasses on his face so that he wouldn’t be blind going back to his room, and pushed the door to the hall open, only to run smack into Draco.

His first thought was to cower in shame, for thinking about things that he shouldn’t have been thinking about. His second thought was that Draco Malfoy was wearing trackies. Draco Malfoy, who always looked like he’d stepped out of the pages of _Wizard Quarterly_ , was wearing _trackies_. Harry was so shocked, he accidentally said it out loud.

“Yes, I ran this morning,” Draco said, looking at Harry with a glint of a challenge in his eye, almost daring Harry to laugh.

Harry wasn’t laughing, though. It was oddly cute, the thought of Draco running. Draco asked him if he ever exercised. Harry had, on occasion, tried to lift a weight or two – Ron had a set in his room at the Burrow – but he’d never stuck to anything. Last summer, Ginny’d talked him into running with her a little, but truthfully, he’d hated it. “Ran once in a while last summer,” he said.

Then, to his absolute surprise, Draco offered to run with him. And suddenly, running seemed a lot less horrible. “It helps you sleep,” Draco explained.

Harry supposed this made sense in a general sort of ‘live a healthy lifestyle’ way. And then Draco mentioned he’d read it on the internet, and Harry thought he’d never heard anything so incongruent as that word coming out of Draco’s mouth. He said it very properly, emphasizing all the ‘t’s.

“How do you know about the internet?” Harry couldn’t help but ask.

“I know about a lot of things, Potter,” Draco said, and the way he said it, and the look in his eyes, was unmistakably flirtatious. Despite wanking himself off not ten minutes earlier, Harry felt his cock spring back to life, just a little, under his towel, and prayed Draco didn’t see it.

Then Draco was pushing past him, and he was breathing in the familiar smell of his skin and his hair, and suddenly, it seemed like there might be a light somewhere, barely visible, but there nonetheless, at the end of all this. Hope, big and bright and burning, kindled in his chest.

Draco didn’t sit next to Blaise on Thursday, Harry noticed. He sat near him, over at the Slytherin end of the table, but he sat next to Pansy at breakfast, and then, at lunch, was clustered with Daphne and Ernie and Millie. At dinner, Pansy and Draco came into the Great Hall at the same time, and Harry saw them stop on their way to the Eighth-Year table. They seemed to be arguing. Ginny was sitting next to Harry, although she was in a conversation with Dean and Seamus and Ron, while Harry was talking to Hermione and Ernie and Mandy. Harry watched, curious, as Pansy yanked Draco towards them.

“Evening, darling,” Pansy said, sweeping into the seat next to Hermione. Draco sat down next to her, and Harry felt his stomach clench when those clear gray eyes flickered up to his and then away.

“Pansy, oh, wonderful, I was hoping to talk to you,” Hermione said, immediately launching into some idea or another for an Eighth-Year event.

Harry felt Ginny’s hand on his thigh. “What do you think about Easter holiday?” she asked.

“What do you mean?” Harry said.

“You’re staying here, aren’t you?” she asked.

Harry had always spent Easter hols at school. They’d always had plenty of studying to do around that time, not to mention Quidditch to practice. But this year, he didn’t have to worry about Quidditch, and he didn’t have final exams in his courses this year, either. Instead, they would be preparing for their NEWTs all spring, which took place in the summer. “Not sure,” he said. “Probably.”

“Good,” said Ginny. “If you stayed, you could practice with us. It’d be so good to have Quimbly go up against you. She’s talented, but she’s not confident yet, still hesitates too long sometimes. You could work with her.”

“Yeah, I could help with that,” Harry said. Rebecca Quimbly was the new Gryffindor Seeker, only a third year, but she was good. Very agile, very fast. Harry wouldn’t mind working with her.

“Brilliant,” Ginny said, and then leaned over to kiss his cheek. Harry found himself turning his head to grab another helping of potatoes, narrowly avoiding her. He felt stupid for doing it, and his cheeks got hot. He didn’t look back at her or over at Malfoy.

“Potter,” said Pansy, suddenly, her voice strident. He looked up to see her and Draco both looking at him. “You’re not going to be here over Easter,” she said.

Beside him, he felt Ginny tense. “Erm, I’m not?” he said, not sure where this was going.

“No, you git. Have you not been listening to Hermione?”

Harry thought furiously. He had been rather distracted lately, but surely he would know if he agreed to a holiday with Hermione?

“Harry,” Hermione said, huffing. “I’ve been talking about this for days!”

“Right,” he said. Nope, nothing. There was literally nothing rattling around in his brain about this. It was a wasteland up there in his head – dry and deserted, tumbleweeds blowing about, the howl of a coyote off in the distance.

“Well, I assumed you’d be going!” Hermione exclaimed. “Since you said you’d help plan!”

“Oh, yes, well. Yes,” Harry said.

Hermione’s eyes narrowed. “You have no idea what I’m talking about, do you.”

“Erm. No,” said Harry.

Beside Hermione, Ron was laughing at him. Harry flipped him off.

“About the Easter holiday trip, Harry! To America!”

“Oh, yeah, America.” It sank in. “We’re going to America?”

“That’s the idea,” Hermione said, clearly frustrated.

“Well, yeah, that sounds brill,” he said, nodding.

“So you’re not staying here, then,” Ginny said, frowning beside him.

“Merlin, Gin, this is our class trip!” exclaimed Ron. “You can’t expect Harry to miss out on it to help you lot during practice!”

“No, of course not,” Ginny sighed, returning to her dinner. “Only he just said –”

“Sorry,” Harry whispered to her. “I really didn’t know.”

“S’okay,” she said, shrugging.

For the rest of dinner, there was excited discussion about the trip: how to get there, where to go, what to do. Harry hadn’t ever considered taking a trip during the spring holiday, but suddenly, it seemed like just the thing.

By the end of dinner, there were some leading contenders for places to visit: New York City, California, the Grand Canyon, New Orleans, and sunny, spring-break beaches in the southeast. Harry vaguely knew about all these places, of course, but he’d never thought about visiting them, much less taking a trip with his classmates.

Beside him, Ginny was quiet, subdued. He felt bad for the way the conversation had gone, for how she probably felt excluded, all of a sudden. He leaned over and kissed her cheek. “I really am sorry, Gin,” he said.

“Don’t be foolish, Harry,” she said, her eyes soft. “You obviously have to go on this trip. It wouldn’t be the same without you, would it? You shouldn’t feel bad about wanting to. It’s honestly not a big deal.” She angled her head, and the light caught the shine of her hair. She offered him a small smile.

“Thanks,” he whispered, and she patted his leg.

Draco wasn’t anywhere that weekend – not at meals, not at the SASS alumni letter-writing campaign kick-off on Saturday afternoon in the Eighth-Year Common Room, or at the (rather subdued) party afterward. Ginny left right after writing her letters, saying she needed to talk to Carolyn, and Harry soon found himself in a conversation with Pansy about the trip.

“I don’t know why we wouldn’t use a Portkey,” Pansy huffed. “It seems mad, getting into one of those aeroplanes.”

“They’re perfectly safe. I’ve never taken one, personally, but Hermione has, and so has Justin, and I’m sure other people have, too. Muggles use them every day. Not to mention, if we traveled by Portkey, we’d have to make multiple jumps, and we’d probably all be sick as hell by the time we got there. And we don’t even know if we could get permission to use them in time.”

“Still,” Pansy said. “We should be trying. But, if that’s a lost cause, at least help me talk Hermione into going to Florida, too. I don’t want to spend the whole trip somewhere that’s just as cold as here.” They were definitely going to New York City, but Pansy was trying to convince everyone to spend the last few days in Miami, Florida. Pansy had been there before and swore that they’d have an amazing time. “Think of it, Harry: a big, hot city, full of amazing restaurants and nightclubs, and then the beach, miles of white sand…lots of girls in bikinis…lots of _boys_ in tight little shorts…lounging about with tropical drinks…”

“It sounds amazing! It does. I already said I’d be happy to go there,” Harry said.

“No, but you need to talk her into it, Harry! She’s busy planning an itinerary full of museums and tours, which sound fun in moderation, but my god. It’s going to just feel like extra school if Hermione has her way.”

Harry laughed. Hermione _was_ getting a bit carried away with museums and cultural activities. Harry had seen the spreadsheet; it was intense.

“Yes, okay, sure. I’ll talk to her.”

“ _Thank_ you,” Pansy said. She tilted her head at him. “He’s not here this weekend, by the way. You can stop looking around for him.”

“Oh, er,” Harry felt himself blush. “I wasn’t.”

“Mm hm. Well. He’s in London again. Wanted to go back to the internet café, and also wanted to buy some muggle shoes. Don’t ask me why. He’s going through an odd phase.”

Harry nodded. He desperately wanted to ask about Blaise, but would not. Had no right, not when he was with Ginny.

“Harry, if you don’t mind me asking…” Pansy’s eyes were intent on his. “Did you _mean_ to get back together with the Weasley girl?”

Harry felt his hackles rise, even though Pansy was being alarmingly astute. Regardless, he didn’t want anyone saying anything bad about Ginny. “Her name’s Ginny, as I believe you already know. And no, not exactly. It just sort of…happened.”

“Ah,” Pansy said. “And how does something like that just ‘happen’?”

“Dunno,” he said, shrugging. “Just did.”

She nodded. “Why do I feel like that’s the story of your life?” she asked. “Like, people just throw things at you, and decide things for you, and you simply take it from there and hope for the best.”

He thought about that. About Dumbledore, and the war, and the mantle he’d taken on before he even really understood it. About how he’d fallen in love with Ginny because it seemed ready-made for him: his best friend’s sister, daughter of his pseudo-parents, already enamored with him. He thought about how they’d gotten back together, almost by mistake. He thought about how he was to become an Auror, because that was what everyone thought he should be.

He thought about how he didn’t want to have all this crashing down on his head in an off-the-cuff conversation with Pansy Parkinson. “I think that’s how life happens for most people, Pansy,” he said.

“Not me, Potter. I’ve set my sights on what I want, and I’m going to make it happen. Those things, those dreams, they’re mine. They’re not anybody else’s. They’re _mine_. I absolutely _covet_ them, and I’ll get them before this life is over or I’ll kill myself trying. Can you say the same thing? About anything?”

He sighed. “That’s intense, for a Saturday night.”

She patted his shoulder. “Just think about it, would you? And if you want to go running with Draco, talk to him. He’ll be too afraid to ask you again.”

He gulped and nodded. “Yeah, okay.” Merlin, Pansy was a frightening person. As she drifted off, in her cloud of delicate, rose-scented perfume, Harry realized, suddenly, why her bizarre friendship with Hermione made sense. Hermione was the only other person he’d ever met who was _that_ sure of what she wanted, of who she was. Draco, on the other hand, seemed a bit more like Harry, like he was just handed things, sometimes, and learned to deal with them afterward. Harry wondered if that was what had drawn him to Hermione, and Draco to Pansy.

Although, Draco seemed different, somehow, that morning at the shower room door. And buying muggle shoes? What was the story there? Was that Draco figuring out who he was and what he wanted?

As Harry sat down on one of the sofas next to Mandy and Katie Bell, he wondered, too, how he was ever going to get over Draco. Because from the way his heart picked up speed as soon as Pansy mentioned his name, Harry knew for certain that he wasn’t yet. He wasn’t even close.

Not that he’d ever thought otherwise.


	17. Friendship, Take Two

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry and Draco give friendship another try

No one could ever know me  
No one could ever see me  
Seems you're the only one who knows  
What it's like to be me  
Someone to face the day with  
Make it through all the rest with  
Someone I'll always laugh with  
Even at my worst, I'm best with you, yeah

 **_I'll Be There For You_ ** **/ The Rembrandts**

* * *

“Wait, Malfoy!” came a voice from one of the couches in the Eighth-Year Common Room. Draco was just getting back to school after another weekend in London with his mother. It had been nice and quiet and relaxing. He’d slept both nights there, much to his surprise. He’d seen Andromeda and Teddy again, too, and Teddy had soaked the collar of Draco’s shirt in his attempt to eat it.

Draco had also purchased a pair of his own swishy trousers, a pair of swishy shorts, two athletic t-shirts, and a pair of trainers made especially for running, all from a muggle store. The money situation had been very confusing, even after exchanging his own money for muggle money at Gringotts, but he’d managed to navigate it.

“Hello,” Draco said, looking around the room as Harry approached. Ginevra Weasley was nowhere to be seen.

“How was your weekend?” Harry asked, looking happy. Draco didn’t want to assume that Harry was happy to see _him_ , though it did sort of seem that way, maybe.

“Fine,” Draco said. “I saw Teddy for the second weekend in a row.”

“Teddy Lupin? But –”

“Mother and Andromeda, they’ve patched things up,” Draco explained.

“Oh, that’s brilliant! I’m so glad. I know Andromeda’s wanted to reach out. How’s Teddy, by the way? I saw him a couple of times over Christmas, but not since. I’ve missed the little chameleon.”

Draco grinned. “He’s grand. Teething. Also, he’s been taking on my hair.”

Harry pretended to glare. “Hey now, you stop that. I’m his godfather. He ought to be taking on _my_ hair.”

“I’ll tell him next time I see him,” Draco said.

“Humph,” said Harry.

“Well, I ought to –” Draco began.

“I want to run with you, is what I was going to say. The snow melted this weekend, and its still a bit wet out, but I think we could run outside, you know, in a day or two.”

“I’ve been running on the track under the locker rooms,” Draco explained. That weekend, he’d run through a city park, but here, he’d been planning on running the track until it got warmer.

“Ah,” said Harry. “I see. Isn’t that boring, though, running around and around in a circle?”

Draco shrugged. “Not if you’re timing yourself.” Draco thought about this. It would be fun to run with Harry. Fun to beat him. “Not if you’re racing your arch-nemesis,” he said, waggling his eyebrows.

Harry laughed delightedly. “Are you going today?”

“I hadn’t really thought about it, but…sure. I could.”

“Okay, when?” asked Harry.

“Um. Well…after I get unpacked?” asked Draco.

Harry nodded. “Come get me when you’re done.”

Harry-on-a-mission was one of the most amusing things in the universe. When he decided he wanted to do something, be it starting SASS or learning a new spell, it was like the rest of the world fell away, everything besides that one thing. There was no beating around the bush, no hemming and hawing. Just _this_ and _right now_ and _do it._

Draco went to his room and changed into his new clothes, opting for the shorts instead of trousers because it got warm underneath the locker room. He slipped on his new shoes. They were called Asics gels, and they were made specifically for running. They were a perfect fit, made his feet feel securely cushioned and supported. He thought that if wizard shoemakers took a closer look at muggle trainers, they’d probably be able to produce something even better than the muggle version, although the muggle version was nice enough.

For whatever reason, though, wizarding clothiers and shoemakers of all stripes refused to study muggle design. For all the muggles’ shortcomings (e.g., lack of magic, general uninterestingness), they designed quality clothes and shoes. That didn’t stop half of the muggles he’d encountered from dressing like they were taking a sick day in bed, and were possibly colorblind besides, but still. There _were_ delightful muggle clothes and shoes available if you took the time to look.

Draco wrapped himself up in his warm cloak and headed to Harry’s room. He hadn’t been there since last week, when he’d seen Ginny holding Harry’s hand. He hoped to Merlin she wasn’t there now.

“Potter?” he said, sticking his head in the door.

“Draco, you seem to have forgotten your trousers,” Seamus remarked.

Draco rolled his eyes. “One, I have shorts on, and two, what’re you doing peeking at what’s underneath my cloak, hm? Don’t think Dean would appreciate that.”

Dean, who was there, of course, shrugged and grinned. “Don’t care if he looks at another bloke. They’re not shagging him; I am.”

“Oh, and how would you know?” Seamus teased, taking Dean’s hand. “Maybe all the other boys are shagging me.”

“There aren’t enough hours in the day, Seamus,” Dean said. “I keep you much too busy.”

“True,” said Seamus, giving him a kiss.

“Oh, Salazar,” Draco said, his eyes rolling heavenward. It really was difficult to be around them sometimes. They were _too_ happy. “Where’s Harry?”

“Here I am,” said Harry, suddenly appearing behind Draco. He was in swishy pants of his own, and one of those hooded sweatshirts muggles favored, with the pocket on the front. Considering what he was wearing, Draco was certain Harry wasn’t supposed to look nearly as good as he did. And yet he did.

“Glad you could make it, Potter. Given that it was your bloody idea,” Draco said.

Harry huffed a laugh. “I had to run to the loo, you prat,” he said, grabbing a cloak and settling it over his shoulders.

They headed across the Quidditch pitch, Draco careful to side-step any puddles, lest he ruin his new muggle shoes. Harry laughed at him and tromped through everything, although his trainers were already dirtied so Draco supposed it didn’t matter.

They reached the underground gymnasium and Draco cast the ball of light like he did the last time. “Huh,” Harry said. “Never actually been down here.”

“Strange, isn’t it?” asked Draco. “As you can see, it’s not been kept up very well.”

“Clearly,” Harry said. “I like that about it, though.”

Draco laughed. “You would.”

“Feels kind of like a secret that way, doesn’t it? Anyway, how long do you usually do this?”

“Four laps is a mile. I usually do two, although the other day I did three.”

Harry whistled, and Draco felt a thrill at the thought that he’d impressed him. “Dunno if I can do it, but I’ll try.”

Draco nodded and pulled his cloak off and heard Harry laugh.

“Now I’ve seen everything,” he said. “Draco Malfoy in Asics and gym shorts and a Nike shirt.”

“I liked the colors,” Draco said, frowning. This shirt was red and black and white.

“No, you look great, I promise. Just strange, because…well, it’s you.”

“Humph,” said Draco, filing the ‘you look great’ away in his brain. “Well, if you’re done critiquing my wardrobe selection, I think it’s time for me to embarrass you.” He took off without giving Harry a chance to respond, and he heard a muttered string of expletives as Harry threw off his own cloak and sweatshirt and tried to catch up.

Draco was running slightly faster than usual, only it didn’t seem difficult at all today. He felt light as air, like he could run forever. He slowed a bit so Harry could catch up, and noticed that Harry was huffing and puffing already, while he was not. “I can’t tell you how good it feels to be better than you at something,” Draco remarked.

Harry glared. “Only because you cheated there at the beginning,” he said. “I’m certainly not conceding, if that’s what you’re asking.”

“Oh, I’m not asking anything. No, no, no. I’m gloating, you see. Quite different.”

Harry laughed, and then, apparently too out of breath to keep talking, they fell into more or less of a rhythm, and the sound of their breaths – in for two strides, out for three, was what it seemed to be – filled the underground space.

“You have a good weekend?” Draco asked after a few moments.

Harry shrugged. “Fine. Bit boring. Talked to Pansy about the trip. She really wants to go to Florida.”

“Florida…” Draco mulled the word over. He couldn’t remember if that was the place where all the film stars lived. Honestly, he knew two things about America: one, that it had small, scattered wizarding communities, and two, that New York City was home to his mother’s favorite clothing store outside of Paris, called Amortentia. She traveled there every other year just to shop, and had things delivered to the Manor the rest of the time.

“Warm, beachy? Ring any bells?”

“Eh, no. I can’t keep those places straight, Harry,” Draco said.

“You know what we need, is a travel guide. They have books, all about different places, about what to see and do there. The Dursleys used to always buy those even though they hardly ever went anywhere. They _talked_ about traveling a lot, and bought a bunch of those books. I wish there was a muggle bookshop near Hogsmeade.”

“There’s loads of bookshops near the London townhouse,” Draco found himself saying. “I could try to find some of these guides. I wouldn’t know what kind to get, though. But maybe Pansy could help me. She did a bunch of muggle things last summer. Her cousin’s dating one, you know. A muggle.”

“ _Really_?” Harry asked, looking scandalized. “And the world hasn’t ended?”

“It’s her mother’s niece. That’s the questionable side of the family.”

Harry raised an eyebrow at Draco. “Because of the muggle?”

“No,” Draco said stubbornly. “Nothing to do with that.” It was true that they had been considered questionable long before Margot took up with the muggle, although that hadn’t helped.

“Mm, okay,” said Harry.

“You could help me look, maybe,” Draco said, then immediately wished he could take it back. Harry probably felt weird about it, because it was weird of Draco, to ask.

“Are you asking me to come with you to London?” Harry asked.

“No, sorry. Of course not. Stupid idea. I’m sure you wouldn’t want to be at my family’s house, especially with my mother, that’s –”

“I’ll go,” Harry said. “It’d be an adventure, wouldn’t it? I’ve hardly spent time in London at all, not really. I don’t count sneaking around during the war.”

“You’ll – really? I would need to find out if it’s okay with her…”

“Find out. Owl her. If it’s okay with her, I’ll go with you. Help you look through some of the muggle bookstores.”

“Alright,” Draco said, stunned. He realized he’d lost track of the number of laps they’d done. “What lap are we on?”

“Nine,” Harry said. Draco was surprised; it hadn’t seemed like that many. Draco noticed that Harry had sweat across his brow and his lip, that his cheeks were bright pink. Draco felt hot, too, though not winded.

“Can you do one more?”

“I can if you can,” Harry said.

Draco didn’t know if he was setting himself up to fail, but he picked up speed, pulling ahead of Harry on the track. “Bet I can beat you,” he called, looking over his shoulder.

Harry grunted in reply, and Draco saw his legs kick into a higher gear out of the corner of his eye. They were almost sprinting at full speed now, and Draco began sucking in breath harder. He pumped his arms, ignored the ache of his legs and his lungs. Faster, faster, his muggle shoes slapping against the track. He saw the finish line up ahead, and his body wanted to slow, to coast to the end, but he didn’t let it, only bore down harder, faster, faster, chest heaving.

He passed the line and it took a while to slow down. When he spun around, he saw that Harry still hadn’t reached the end, and seemed ready to pass out. His face had a look that Draco knew too well, though – a look of determination. He finally crossed, and put his hands up on his head, walking in circles to catch his breath. The he lifted two of his fingers and saluted Draco with them. “Congratulations, you git,” Harry gasped, huffing and puffing. “You won. But I’m calling for a rematch. Give me a day or two and we’ll race again.”

“Just tell me when,” Draco said, smirking. “I’d be happy to annihilate you a second time.”

“Pah, annihilation my arse. You were maybe ten seconds ahead of me.”

“Still ahead of you, though,” Draco said, jumping back as Harry tried to kick him. “Haha, missed.”

“Keep talking, knob head. See what happens,” Harry said.

Draco strode up to him, smirking in his face. “I’m shaking in my trainers, Potter.”

Harry was grinning, but it faded as he registered Draco’s proximity. Draco noticed, too, how close he was. One more step and he’d be able to smell Harry’s sweat, feel his breath against his skin, feel the warmth radiating from his body. Harry’s eyes were on his, and Draco could feel the heat of that gaze all down his spine and deep in his belly.

He stepped back. “Let’s get back. I need to study.”

“Sure,” Harry said, clearing his throat. “I probably do, too.”

They ran together two more times that week, on Tuesday and Friday mornings. Draco ran on the other days, too – he was up before the sun rose every morning, so why not? But on the days with Harry, Draco found himself pushing harder, striving, running faster and longer than he did on his own.

He’d been putting off asking his mother whether Harry could stay at the townhouse that weekend, and Harry hadn’t brought it up again, so he assumed that it wasn’t going to happen. That was fine with him, truthfully. He’d made the offer in an endorphin-spiked haze, and it was stupid, and would’ve probably been insanely awkward.

Then, though, after their Friday run, they tumbled down onto the track, sprawling their legs out in front of them, leaning back on their hands, and Harry said, “Do I need to pack anything special?”

Draco blinked. “Er, no. A nice jumper, maybe.”

“A nice one, you say? Hm.” Harry said, scrunching up his face.

“Borrow Ernie’s green one again, you wanker,” Draco said, trying not to hyperventilate. He decided then and there that he couldn’t owl his mother in time, to ask, and besides, she couldn’t very well throw Harry out if he was standing there, in her foyer, could she?

“We’ll leave right after class, yeah?” Draco asked, as he and Harry reached the boys’ corridor.

“Sounds good. Hey, bring your SASS things, would you? We can work on that a bit this weekend. We’ve got to get ready for those meetings with the Board members.”

“Yeah, I will,” Draco said, nodding, as he pulled his door open.

He walked into his room to find it empty except for Blaise, who was sitting on his bed and glaring. “Taking right back up with Potter, are you? I knew it wasn’t about me at all. It was about _him_. And I notice you’re not forcing _him_ to break up with the Weasley girl in order to continue fucking you.”

“Blaise, you arsehole,” Draco ground out, shocked at this outburst. Blaise had been giving him the silent treatment. “I’m not fucking Potter, nor have I, nor would I while he’s with Ginevra Weasley. We are _friends_. Which is what I thought you and I were, although you’ve made it painfully clear that we’re not anymore.”

“You fucked me over, Draco! How am I to be your friend _ever_ _again_?” Blaise’s chest was heaving, his eyes too bright. “Fuck’s sake, you just _stopped_. You were mad about me all year -- and don’t try to deny it, it was obvious -- and then as soon as I began to feel the same, you just _stopped_. I can’t figure if you simply liked the game of it all, or if you did it to get back at me, but it certainly feels like you did it on purpose. I always knew you were a vindictive little bitch, but I swear to Salazar, I never thought you’d aim it in my direction!”

If Draco didn’t know better, he’d say Blaise was on the edge of tears. But he’d never, ever seen Blaise cry over anything, not in the entire time he’d known him, not even in fifth year.

Blaise wasn’t done, though. He collected himself and went right on ranting. “And the way you trail around after him, even now that he’s with the Weasley bint, it’s just pathetic. _You’re_ pathetic. You make me sick. All the things you and I have been through together, and you decide to fawn over the most _obvious_ , generic choice available. Everyone loves Harry Potter, so why not you, hm? Is that what this is, Draco? Because _that_ , I could almost understand, if you’re doing this for the positive press it might lend your family name.”

“I’m not talking to you about this anymore, Blaise. You’re not being rational,” Draco said, collecting his shower things.

“Fuck you, then. Fuck you, Draco,” Blaise said, coming to crowd him near the sink. Draco blinked up at him, trying not to cringe away.

“Move,” Draco said evenly.

Blaise looked at him, jaw clenched, for a moment, before whirling around and standing stock still, his arms crossed, his long body rigid, shoulders heaving.

Draco took a deep breath and hurried to the showers. Thankfully, Blaise was gone when he returned.

Class that morning dragged, and all Draco could think about was that Harry was coming to London with him. He didn’t know how Harry had broached the subject with Ginevra, or whether that had caused problems. He was still shocked, frankly, that Harry was doing it at all.

He worried about how his mother would react. She was still so fragile, but then, she’d seemed different towards Harry that summer, during the trials. She no longer scowled and tsked at him, but seemed softened, almost fond. She’d cried when Harry testified on Draco’s behalf, and had even hugged him afterward. And she’d confided in Draco about how she’d saved him, how she’d lied to the Dark Lord for Harry. So maybe it would be okay.

Maybe they could see Teddy again, too. It was clear that Harry missed him. Maybe it would be a nice weekend, and not tense and uncomfortable. Maybe…

Before he knew it, class was ending, and Draco was going back up to his room to throw some things in a suitcase, and then Harry was there, battered suitcase in hand, wearing Ernie’s green sweater and a crooked smile.


	18. Weekend Getaway, Part I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry goes with Draco to the Malfoy's London townhouse. The boys have tea and do a little shopping.

I don't care if Monday's blue  
Tuesday's grey and Wednesday too  
Thursday, I don't care about you  
It's Friday, I'm in love  
Monday you can fall apart  
Tuesday, Wednesday break my heart  
Oh, Thursday doesn't even start  
It's Friday, I'm in love

 _**Friday I'm In Love** _ **/ The Cure**

* * *

Harry was in a strange mood. He was excited – beyond excited – to go to Draco’s house. He was so excited that he’d hardly slept the night before, and not because he was agonizing over his problems and his war memories, either. Just because he was chock full of anticipation.

But, also, he was nervous. He was nervous that Mrs. Malfoy would find him annoying, or rude, or look at him the way she used to before the war. Like he was a bug that needed to be swatted out of the way. She’d been so kind to him at the trial; though, to be fair, he _had_ testified on her behalf, and on Draco’s.

He was also feeling a niggling guilt somewhere in his gut, buried deep as he was able to bury it. Ginny hadn’t been thrilled about his weekend plans. Not at all, not even when he explained, very patiently, that he was going so that he and Draco could find some travel guides, and also so that they could work on some SASS things. It seemed very reasonable, to Harry’s mind, but Ginny had looked at him like she just _knew_ the real reason he was going, and that it was because he wanted to touch Draco’s cock. Or maybe that was just Harry’s guilty conscience. He wasn’t entirely sure.

To be fair, Harry _did_ want to touch Draco’s cock. However, he wouldn’t, he wasn’t a cheater, and besides, it seemed impossible as touching the surface of the moon at this point. It wasn’t like Draco was going around thrusting his cock in Harry’s face, asking him to. In fact, Harry hadn’t even _seen_ Draco’s cock, only the outline of it through his black pants. It had looked nice, and rather large, but that was only the _impression_ Harry’d had, mind you, because he’d not seen it, not ever. He’d thought about it, though, like, a lot. He was thinking about it now, which was getting him half-hard, which was no good, because he was on his way to Draco’s room, and goddamnit, there Draco was, being normal and slinging a cloak around his shoulders, probably thinking about things _other_ than cock, and _Merlin_ , why was Harry always such a pervert?

He smiled at Draco and gave him a little stupid wave, because he was stupid. Oh god, he was so stupid, and probably so transparent. Draco probably knew what he’d been thinking about. “Er, ready?” he said, eloquently.

Draco nodded. “Ready.”

Draco looked really good today. He’d changed out of his school robes and had on a pair of crisp gray trousers and a lavender jumper, which shouldn’t have looked so good on him, but did, picking up on the pinkish hues of his skin, making his cheeks seem rosy.

They walked out together, Harry chattering nervously about nothing, Draco shooting him amused glances. When they were standing outside of the gates, Draco held out a hand. “Side-Along?” he asked.

Harry nodded, gulping. Was it going to be this way all weekend? He took Draco’s hand, feeling a little thrill at the contact, and then the nausea of disapparating washed over him and he forgot to be thrilled for a moment while they twisted and popped into a handsomely-trimmed foyer. “Here we are,” said Draco. And now, Harry could almost swear it, _he_ looked nervous. Harry eyed the door and wondered if he ought to just pull it open and start running.

“Hold on a moment,” said Draco, setting down his suitcase. “I’ll go find Mother.”

 _Mother, father_ , so formal. So different from the Weasleys’ shrieks of “MUM!” and “DAD!” that echoed through the house at all hours.

Draco disappeared around the corner and Harry took in his surroundings. The foyer was two stories high, with gorgeous stained glass windows along what would be the second story. There was an open, wide set of stairs, and everything was gleaming wood, of a sort Harry had never seen, with a colorful grain, almost golden and fox-orange in some places, and a deep, rich brown-red in others. There was an enormous Persian rug in the entry, in a rainbow of colors, and a chandelier hanging from the ceiling. There was a bench along one wall, and a white marble sculpture of a woman in a toga, twirling and running, looking like she was in motion even though she was still. It was one of the most beautiful things Harry had ever seen, and it was just sitting here, in this room. Hardly even a room; more of a hallway.

He remembered Malfoy Manor well enough. He’d never forget the things that happened there. What he’d seen had been opulent, but in a dismal, smothering sort of way. Everything had been severe, and ancient, and intimidating. This place felt different. Harry decided he liked it.

A house elf popped into existence nearby. “Master Draco is wanting Dinky to collect the bags, Sir,” he said, bustling over to grab Harry’s suitcase and Draco’s, too.

“I can take it up,” Harry said. “Don’t worry.”

“Oh, no, you mustn’t, no, Mister Harry Potter, Sir. Dinky would be honored to be taking your bag. Honored.”

“Yes, alright. Thank you, Dinky,” Harry said, handing it over. Dinky took them both by the handle and popped out of the room.

“Mr. Potter,” said a familiar, soft voice. Narcissa Malfoy was gliding out of an arched doorway, looking much better than the last time he’d seen her. Over the summer, she’d looked gaunt to the point of starvation, and hollowed out, and like she hadn’t slept in days. Her clothing and hairstyles had been immaculate, of course, but you could tell, by looking at her, how awful her life had been at the time. Now, she still looked thinner than he remembered her being before the war, but better, and there was a little life back in her eyes. “It’s so lovely to have you here.”

To Harry’s surprise, she took his hands in hers and kissed both of his cheeks. She smelled like night-blooming jasmine, and her hands were delicate and soft, her lips dry and warm on his cheeks.

“I’m happy to be here, Mrs. Malfoy,” he said, meaning it. Draco had slipped into the foyer and was watching them.

“I hear you’ve taken good care of my Draco this year. I admit I was surprised to hear of your newfound friendship, but glad. Goodness knows, we’ve had some trying months.”

“Honestly,” Harry said, his eyes flickering over to Draco’s. “He’s taken care of me, too.”

She beamed over at Draco, and Harry was almost bowled over by the blatant love and near-adoration in her gaze. The parenting he’d seen was limited to the Weasleys, and Merlin knew Molly loved her children with every bone in her body, but Harry had never, ever seen her look at any of them like that. Like they’d hung all the stars in the sky. “I’m happy to hear it,” she said, looking back at Harry for a moment.

“Well, come in," she said, stepping away. "Come in. I don't want to keep you in the foyer all day. It’s nearly time for tea, would you boys like to join me?”

Harry suspected this would include pastry. “Yes, please,” he said, scurrying after Mrs. Malfoy’s elegant form. Draco fell into line behind him.

They wound their way through a maze of rooms, finally slowing when they reached an impossibly long dining room table with chairs upholstered in sage and cream stripes. Three places were set, and the spread on the table was mad, given that there were, in fact, only three of them. From Harry’s cursory glance, he noted that there were scones and teacakes, macaroons and luscious-looking berry parfaits, and dainty little cucumber and smoked salmon sandwiches cut into circles and stars. There were one-bite quiches and miniature chicken salad croissant sandwiches. There was also an entire tiered serving platter containing a million types of biscuits. Harry’s mouth was watering.

Harry expected Dinky to appear and serve them, but Mrs. Malfoy poured the tea for Harry, asked him if he wanted cream or sugar, and helped him fill his plate. He tried not to overdo it, but it was tough. Everything just looked so _good_.

Mrs. Malfoy asked him about school and his plans for after. “Draco wants to be a Healer, but I’m sure you know that. I’ve tried to tell him we need someone to take care of things in Wiltshire, but he’s insistent.” She sighed.

“Mother,” Draco said, huffing gently. “We’ve discussed this.”

“I know, darling. I’m not trying to change your mind. I’m just making note of the conflict.”

“It will be better, anyway. Since you’re staying here almost full-time now, I’ll be closer to you.”

“Sweetheart, you needn’t concern yourself with me. I’m doing well enough on my own.”

“I know. I can see that you are.”

Harry bit into the most delicious strawberry and cream cake he’d ever tasted and tried not to moan.

“Why is it you want to be an Auror, Mr. Potter?”

“Oh, erm.” He wiped his mouth with a sage green napkin and took a sip of tea. “I dunno, really. I’m good at Defense, so that’s part of it. It just seems like what I should do, you know, given everything.”

She nodded seriously, like he hadn’t just mumbled his way though a non-answer. “I’m sure they’re thrilled by the prospect of taking you on. Robards in particular seems to be a fan of yours.”

“He, ah, likes me well enough, yeah,” Harry said, embarrassed. The truth was, both Robards and Shaklebolt kept in touch with him this year, both of them encouraging him to sit for the NEWTs that were necessary to become an Auror, both of them explaining how much the Auror department could use him in rounding up the last of the Death Eaters.

“Oh, Mother,” Draco said. He had eaten two of the little salmon sandwiches and was munching on a scone. “Are we to see Aunt Andromeda this weekend? Harry is Teddy’s godfather, you know. It would be nice for him to see them.”

“I'm aware of that, darling. And yes, in fact. They’re planning to come by for lunch on Sunday.”

“Oh, brilliant!” Harry said, grinning. He’d love to see Teddy. It had been a couple of months and he missed him. “I hear Teddy’s getting teeth.”

Narcissa chuckled. “More all the time, they’re coming in all at once, it seems. My dear sister is woefully short on sleep these days.”

The rest of tea passed by enjoyably, the mellow, late-afternoon sunshine coming in through the windows, turning the room warm and golden. Finally, Narcissa rose. “I’ll likely take dinner in my room, but Dinky will be happy to fix you something when you get hungry. Harry, please make yourself at home while you’re here.” With a little, formal nod, she took leave of them.

“You’re mom’s being really nice,” Harry said quietly to Draco. He didn’t expect her to be mean or anything, not really, but he hadn’t expected _this_.

Draco nodded. “She likes entertaining. She hadn’t done that much of it lately. And, well. I think she’s still grateful to you, to be honest. For the trials.”

“No, I know. I more meant that…I didn’t realize she was nice, you know, generally.”

Draco grinned. “She’s not, generally. She finds most people aren’t worth her time.”

Harry huffed a laugh. “Well. Glad I am then.”

“Me too.” Draco stood, looking every inch a lord, with his impeccable posture and his studied grace. “Come on. Let’s go out. We can look for bookstores, and maybe get dinner somewhere else.”

“Is there much of a wizarding neighborhood here?” Harry asked. “Wizarding restaurants and things?”

Draco shook his head. “Not near here. I was thinking maybe a muggle restaurant.”

Harry felt his eyes widen. “You want to go to a muggle restaurant?” he asked, feeling like he must’ve heard wrong.

A little grin, a spark burning behind those gray eyes. “Why not? I like their clothes and their internet cafes. Might as well try their food, too.”

Harry felt almost lightheaded. “Well, then. Alright.”

As they were leaving, Harry realized Draco probably didn’t have anything to pay with if they were going to a muggle area. “I have some muggle bank notes up in my suitcase,” Harry said. “I can get them before we go.”

“They’re called pounds, Harry. And I’ve got some already.”

Harry shook his head, astonished, and the boys slipped out of the front door, into the darkening street outside.

The wizarding neighborhood that housed the Malfoy’s townhouse _was_ incredibly small. Only a few blocks worth of residences and a handful of shops, and then they were on muggle streets. “The neighborhood is nice,” Harry remarked. “I mean, the wizard one and this muggle one around it.”

Draco nodded. “A bit quiet, compared to some areas. Lots of shopping and coffee shops, though. Plenty of book stores.”

“What else would you want?” Harry asked.

Draco grinned wickedly, pushing his hair back. “Clubs. Bars. You know. Places to cause trouble. There are a few nearby, but Pansy says they’re rather tame.”

Harry felt an electric thrill along his spine at the thought of Draco in a muggle club. He’d been to pubs last summer, with Ron, but there weren’t _clubs_ anywhere near Ottery St. Catchpole. He had images in his head, though, from things he’d heard and from, probably, movies and books.

“That’d be rather brilliant, wouldn’t it?” he asked. “Going somewhere like that.”

“We could, you know,” Draco said. “We could go tonight, or maybe tomorrow night.”

Harry’s heart began to race at the thought. “But where? How? What would we wear?”

Draco laughed, pulling him into a bookstore. “I don’t know where. How, well. We just walk in, I assume. And as for what we wear…I have no idea. We could buy something, I suppose.”

Harry’s head was spinning. He managed to steer them over to the travel section of the store, and then it hit him, again, that Draco Malfoy was in a muggle bookshop, wearing mugglish clothes, talking about going to a muggle nightclub. It seemed like he’d entered some sort of dreamworld, an alternate universe. Surely this could not be real. He had the strongest urge, then, to throw Draco up against the bookshelf and snog the shit out of him.

Instead, he picked up a Lonely Planet guide to New York City, and then one for Florida. “Here,” he said. “These look okay?”

Draco nodded, then picked up a Fodor’s on New York. He _would_ be drawn to Fodor’s, the git. That’s what the Dursleys had always preferred, despite not having the money to stay at any of the hotels listed inside. Draco could, though. He could afford, probably, anything in there, and even better. Harry realized, with a start, that he probably could, too. He always forgot about that, that he had plenty of money now. 

“Let’s get this too,” he said, tossing the Fodor’s at Harry.

Harry nodded, and then followed Draco up to the register, where he handed over muggle money as payment, and then they were bursting back out onto the street.

There might not have been too much in the way of clubs in this neighborhood, but there were plenty of shops. Bookshops, yes, and oodles of clothing stores and upscale boutiques. “What does one wear to a club, exactly?” Harry asked, peeking into a window showcasing dresses that seemed more suited to a garden party than anything else.

“I’m not sure about here in London. Pansy said that in Paris, it was all about looking a bit debauched, for girls at least. Skimpy things, short skirts, tight pants, navels showing. That sort of thing. I’m not sure what men are supposed to wear.”

Harry tried to imagine the coolest outfit he could, and came up with literally nothing. After being consumed by a war for the last couple of years, and living amongst wizards who thought formal robes were the height of fashion, he really didn’t have a clue.

They strolled slowly down the street, looking in windows, people passing everywhere. It was dark now, but the street was crowded and the restaurants were beginning to fill up. It wasn’t very cold, Harry realized. He hardly needed his coat. Draco wasn’t wearing one, and he seemed fine. It felt like spring.

“There,” Draco said. “Look.”

He was pointing to a men’s clothing store. The clothes inside looked expensive, and also a little edgy. Things you’d wear to draw attention to yourself. “I literally cannot picture myself in any of those,” Harry said, eying up a mannequin in a black tank top and white leather pants.

Draco laughed. “I’m sure we can find you something,” he said, pulling Harry inside.

Draco buzzed around the racks like a hornet, looking inspired. Harry was cringing, wanting to die. A shop clerk came ambling over. He had dark hair that fell into his eyes and a hoop in one ear. He was wearing jeans that looked like they’d been mauled and a tight black turtleneck. He was pretty hot, and also, he was looking at Draco with interest. Harry bristled. “Need help?” he asked, his eyes seeming to suggest that he could help with just about _anything_ Draco wanted.

Draco smiled up at him, distracted. “Yes. I’d like to try some things on.”

“Absolutely," said the guy, taking a handful of things from Draco. “I’ll start you a room. If you don’t mind, I’ll pull some extra things that might work for you.” He eyed the clothes in his hands. “I think I know what you’re going for. I’m Will, if you need anything.” Then he winked before walking away.

“God, could he have been more obvious?” Harry huffed, seriously annoyed. “And what am I, a light fixture? He didn’t even acknowledge me.”

“That’s because you don’t look like you’re _shopping_ , you git. You look like you want to run out of the store.”

Well, it was true. He did want to run out of the store.

“Here,” said Draco, holding up a mottled brown leather jacket. It had no collar, and seemed worn and smoothed with time, even though it was new. “You could pull this off.” He kept looking, and found a white fucking t-shirt that cost fifty-five pounds, which made Harry want to burn it on principle. He didn’t, because Draco picked it and also because it was, admittedly, very soft. Draco pulled out a couple more t-shirts, a black button-up, a green button-up and a couple of pairs of jeans, and shoved Harry towards the dressing rooms. It was fancy in the back, with comfortable-looking, elegant leather armchairs and polished wood floors and paintings of men that looked like someone had thrown paint at a canvass from across the room, in shades like fluorescent pink and black and lime green and red. It was chaotic, and kind of sexy.

“Will, we need another room,” Draco said, practically throwing Harry at him.

“Of course,” Will said, all business now that he wasn’t drooling all over Draco. He let Harry in and looked over the things in Draco’s hands. “These are for him?” he asked. Draco nodded. Will sighed. “I’ll see if I can find anything else.”

“Merlin, don’t put yourself out or anything,” Harry groused when he was safely within the confines of his dressing room.

“Harry, you’ve got to show me!” Draco instructed from from nearby.

“Yeah, yeah,” Harry muttered. If he’d known the evening was going to include shopping, he might have stayed back at the townhouse. Oh, who was he kidding? He’d go anywhere Draco wanted him to go.

There was a knock on the door before Harry even got his trousers off. He expected it was Will with more horrible things for him to try on. Instead, it was Draco, wearing…holy fuck. Harry swallowed.

He was wearing a black leather jacket that was almost the twin of Harry’s brown one, fitted close to his body, with no collar, and underneath was a see-through shirt. Like, almost totally see-through. It was ostensibly black, but mostly it was skin-colored, because mostly it was skin. Draco’s nipples were covered by the jacket, but you could see his bellybutton clearly. He had on a simple pair of well-fitted jeans and kind of clunky black boots.

“Does this work for me? Or do I look like I’m playing dress up?” he asked.

“Um, no. You look…er…nice?” Harry said, his mouth feeling suddenly dry.

“You’re lying, I look like a tosser, don’t I?” Draco said, stalking over to the mirrors.

“You look good. You should get it,” Harry managed. He gulped. “All of it.”

Draco’s sharp eyes flickered towards his in the mirror. “Oh,” he said, a slow smile spreading over his face. “You _do_ actually like it.”

"Yep,” Harry squeaked, then retreated into his own fitting room.

He managed to slip off his jeans, revealing his obscenely tented pants, and then yanked off his shirt. His body felt too warm, too sensitive. This was a public fucking place, for Merlin’s sake. Could he not control himself even in public? He pulled on the ridiculously overpriced white t-shirt, noting that it looked really good, actually, and was a totally different material, and a different cut than his undershirts (which it sort of resembled). It made his arms look more muscley than they actually were (which was not very) and made his waist look really trim. He picked up one of the pairs of jeans.

Suddenly the door to his fitting room was opening, and Harry yelped and leapt back, thinking that he was being accosted by Will. But no, it was Draco again, this time in a pair of purple pants in what looked to be _velvet_ and a raggedy-edged black tunic-style shirt that dipped in the center to reveal his pale collarbone. He'd thrown the black leather jacket over it again. Harry hid his boner behind the jeans.

“Damnit, Potter, how have you still not tried _anything_ on yet?”

“Here,” said Will’s voice, thrusting clothes into Draco’s hands. “These are for him.”

“Thank you,” Draco said, giving Will a flirty smile, which only, for whatever-the-fuck-reason, served to make Harry harder.

Will appeared behind Draco, eying Harry up. “Oh, sorry, thought you were dressed,” he said, before looking Draco over. “That is stunning. My god. You have to get those trousers, at least.” His gaze was practically scorching holes in Draco’s arse with its intensity.

“Mm, think I will,” said Draco.

“Can I please have some privacy so I can get these jeans on?” Harry cried.

Draco shot Will a knowing look before _coming into the dressing room_ with Harry. “Er,” Harry said.

“Go on,” Draco said, waving impatiently at him. “Merlin, Potter, you act like it’s something I haven’t already seen.”

Harry had a hard-on the size of the Tower of London and really didn’t want to let it out into the wild. He faced the wall and pulled on the jeans and tried to tuck his cock up into the waistband so it wasn’t so obvious. He swore he heard Draco chuckling behind him, but it might’ve been his imagination.

“There,” he said, feeling very turned on and also sick of the whole thing. “It’s a t-shirt and jeans. Yay.”

“No, look,” Draco said, standing behind him and eyeballing the mirror. “It is, but it fits you really well. And I like the v-neck. It's a tiny bit deeper than what you'd normally wear, but not ridiculous. Just right.” He picked up the brown jacket and helped Harry into it. It, too, was a perfect fit, and Harry had to admit it was a little bit cool-looking and improved the rest of the clothes. He tried not to shudder at the brush of hands as Draco tugged the jacked straight. “God, those trainers,” he said, eying Harry’s shoes. “Will! Can we get a pair of boots for Harry? Black or brown.”

Will poked his head in, and Harry wondered if he was just waiting for Draco outside the door. He looked at Harry’s feet. “What size?”

Harry told him and he was off and running, coming back with two different brown pairs. One looked shiny and new, the other looked like they’d been through a war. Harry liked the latter. The boots were big and clunky, but he liked the look of them, liked how, like the jacket, they didn’t look fresh off the shelf. They looked already lived in, in a wonderful way.

“Here,” Will said, tying a cream and brown flannel around Harry’s waist. He eyeballed him. “Nice.”

Harry looked in the mirror. He looked a little tough, maybe, like somebody who might ride a motorcycle. It reminded him a little of Sirius, of the pictures of Sirius as a teenager. “Oh, necklace,” said Will, running off again.

Draco was looking at Harry closely, too, and Harry couldn’t help but notice two spots of bright color high on his cheeks. “I knew that would be a good look for you,” he said, glancing away. Harry saw his Adam’s apple bob in his long throat. “See, I’m always right.”

“It’s good, I admit it,” Harry said. “You, on the other hand…”

Draco looked at him with flashing eyes. “I what? Will seemed to like this.”

“I’m teasing, you git. It’s good. You look good.” Harry was still partial to the scandalous see-through shirt, but this was also very, very hot. Those purple pants…did things, to Harry.

Will came back to string a silvery chain around Harry’s back. He saw, with astonishment, that it had a lightening bolt charm on the end. “I saw your scar,” Will said, pointing. “It’s kind of a cool shape, so…I thought…”

“No, I like it,” Harry said, feeling less murder-y towards him. He turned to Draco. “Can we go now?”

“I still have so much to try on!” Draco cried, looking bereft.

“Fine, but I’m done. I’m going to go sit on one of those chairs.”

Draco sighed. “Alright. I suppose I should count this as a small victory regardless.”

Harry spent the next hour watching Draco prance around in outfits that vacillated between regular levels of hot and coma-inducing, brain-bleeding levels of hot. Will brought him a cup of tea to sip while he admired the show. As they finally exited the store with three full bags of clothes, Harry decided that shopping with Draco wasn’t actually that terrible.

They grabbed a late dinner at a Mediterranean place that was pretty fancy so far as Harry was concerned, although Draco griped about the fact that there was no roe on the menu, and also remarked that their olive oil was shitty. He did like whatever wine he’d picked out. Harry did, too, but he supposed he’d like any wine, since he was used to drinking firewhiskey and gin and the occasional pint.

They decided they would try their clubbing experiment the next evening, because they were both too tired. They crept into the townhouse and Draco showed Harry to a guest room, which was right next to Draco’s room, and Harry fell asleep excited for the next day.

He woke up at four in the morning, ran down the hall to the loo, thinking he was probably up for good. He felt too awake. Draco opened the door to his room when Harry was on his way back. “I’m up, too,” he said, his hair as messy as Harry’d ever seen it. He was wearing a t-shirt and boxer-briefs, all of it rumpled, and was rubbing his eye with his fist. “Want to go for a run in a little bit?”

Harry laughed at the sight of him. It was rather adorable. “It’s still dark out.”

“Yeah, I know. As soon as it gets light.”

“Sure,” Harry said, heading into his room, and was shocked when Draco trailed in after him and climbed under his covers.

“I’m cold,” Draco said by way of explanation. “But I want to talk about our day.”

 _Our day_.

Sleepy, mussy-haired Draco snuggling into a bed that was probably still warm from Harry’s own body.

Harry felt such a wave of intense fondness rush over him that he could hardly stay standing up straight. He wanted nothing more than to crawl under the covers after him. To do what, he wasn’t sure. Anything. Everything. At the very least, hold him as close as he possibly could.

Instead, he picked up his hoodie and shoved it on over his head and sat at the foot of the bed. “Start talking, then,” he said, putting his hand on Draco’s foot, patting it through the covers. He supposed that was probably okay. It was just a foot, after all.


	19. Weekend Getaway, Part II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Draco's got it bad

And all I want from you is what you are  
And even if you're right next to me  
You're still too far away  
If I'm not inside your arms  
I get dramatic, baby, yes, I know  
But I need you, I want you, oh I love you so

You're gonna see  
I'm gonna run, I'm gonna try  
I'm gonna take this love right to ya  
All my heart, all the joy  
Oh, baby, baby, please

(Rush, rush) Hurry, hurry, lover, come to me  
(Rush, rush) I wanna see ya, I wanna see you free with me  
(Rush, rush) I can feel it, I can feel you all through me  
(Rush, rush) Ooh, what you do to me

_**Rush Rush** _ **/ Paula Abdul**

* * *

Draco was having a phenomenal weekend, and it was only Saturday morning. He and Harry just finished their run, which had led them through a greenspace he’d never seen before. There had been a soaring, white stone church there surrounded by gardens in which the trees were just beginning to bud. There was an old graveyard, a pond, and ducks and other birds dithering about. It had been dead quiet, except for the birds; it was so early on a Saturday, and utterly deserted. It felt like he and Harry were the only people in the whole world as they sped over its meandering pathways. For the first time, they didn’t race, only looked around as they ran, stopping on occasion to point out something to the other.

Harry was altogether good company. Draco’d known this, he supposed, based on all the time they spent together at school. But now they were here, in unfamiliar territory, without anybody else to keep them entertained, and they were having an embarrassingly good time. Harry was goofy as ever, and unpredictable, and, Draco had to admit, downright funny when he wanted to be. He also, Draco was learning, was able to roll with just about anything. Tea with Mother? Fine. Shopping at muggle stores? Sure. Mediterranean? Why not. He seemed curious about and interested in literally _everything_ , and he tolerated, if not downright embraced, Draco’s whims (and there were many - - Draco wanted to do so many things while Harry was here).

Unfortunately, Draco thought, as he showered in the little claw-foot tub in his en-suite bathroom, there were two problems, and these two problems both fed into and complicated one another.

The first problem was that Draco was finding it very difficult to keep himself from ripping Harry’s clothes off and ravaging him. Draco’d found Harry attractive, sure, since they’d started spending time together. Fine, before that, if he were honest. Draco’d certainly had the occasional wank to thoughts of Harry even back when he’d been _Potter_ and Draco had mostly despised him.

So, yes, finding Harry attractive was not a new thing. And they’d had those intimate moments together that had tested Draco’s willpower. But Draco hadn’t sat around lusting after Harry like _this_ until recently. He wasn’t certain what had caused this shift – whether it was the memory of those few times they’d kissed and touched, or whether it was the _absence_ of touch in their more recent interactions, after so much of it – but things had, without a doubt, shifted.

It could be the running, maybe. Harry’s arse looked incredible in those swishy trousers. Or it could be that stupid green sweater of Macmillan’s that he’d worn yesterday. Or it could have been that damn leather jacket. Fuck’s sake, that had almost tipped Draco right over the edge. He was already worked up, just from the way Harry had been looking at him in the first outfit he’d tried on, that green gaze burning its way down Draco’s body, lingering at the sheer part. And then Draco had taken a look at Harry in those jeans that actually fit him well, and that t-shirt that fit even better, and that fucking jacket, and he’d been _thisclose_ to spelling the dressing room door locked and pinning Harry up against the wall.

Last night, he’d come all over his hand imagining it, how he might’ve done it, might’ve slipped all those beautiful clothes off slowly, and taken him right there in the dressing room. He wanted to show him how good it could be with another man. That’s what he’d been thinking as he came; that he’d be the first one to touch Harry like that. The first one to fuck him. God, even now, the thought made him shiver.

So, that was problem one.

Problem two was that Draco was, perhaps, sinking further and further into whatever else it was he felt for Harry. More than Philia, as the Greeks called it, that deep bond between friends, although there was that, too, and it never failed to surprise Draco, even though he probably should be a bit used to it by now. It was more, too, than his ever-increasing lust. More than his desire to be comforted by Harry’s touch, although he still missed that terribly.

He hesitated, after Blaise, to call it love, because it was clear that Draco knew jack-all about love. Nonetheless, there was something in him that both grew from all these other feelings and was entirely distinct at the same time. It was warm, and joyful, and desirous, and it made him feel breathtakingly, almost painfully _alive_ and _awake_. Love? Maybe. He didn’t really know. He only knew that it was taking up nearly every inch of space in his brain and his heart.

Problem number two was what made problem number one a problem in the first place. If Draco felt _only_ lust, he’d have seduced Harry by now. He was certain he could manage it, given the size of Harry’s erection yesterday after he’d seen Draco in the sheer shirt. He knew that Harry wanted him, badly. If all he wanted was Harry’s (very nice) arse, he could’ve had it, probably last night, or this morning, even.

Unfortunately, there was problem number two. If he danced Harry down the primrose path that led to his pants, Harry would probably go willingly, but he would be upset afterward. Because whatever Harry might feel for Draco, he was _with_ Ginny Weasley, and Draco knew that Harry was no Blaise. If anything happened between them, Harry would feel guilty and probably hate Draco forever, and that was the last thing Draco wanted. Draco wanted Harry in his life for longer than the single, passionate encounter that might occur within the current situation. He didn’t know how long he wanted him – maybe deep down, he wanted to marry him, like Pansy kept saying, or maybe he just wanted a boyfriend to snog in the Common Room until school ended. He wasn’t really sure, and maybe it didn’t matter. But he knew he wanted more than meaningless sex.

Although he _did_ want sex, to be clear. _Merlin_ , did he want sex.

Even after wanking last night, this morning, when he’d crawled into Harry’s bed before the run and smelled that coconut-y smell, he’d had the insane urge to bury his head in the pillow, surround himself with the scent, and then rut against Harry’s sheets. Preferably while Harry watched.

_Fucking hell._ He heard a low growl tear from his throat.

He needed to rid himself of this demon before he got out of the shower, so that he could behave like a normal person. There was no wall to lean on in here, only a curtain going all the way around, which was really fucking inconvenient when it came to wanking. He wrapped his hand around his cock and thought of Harry’s arse, and what it would look like without the swishy trousers. Without anything at all. Merlin, it was so perky and perfectly round, and Harry had a delicious dip to his back that Draco was really spending too much time thinking about lately.

He wondered, once Ginevra was out of the way (and Draco was bound and determined to _get_ her out of the way, mind), whether Harry would allow Draco to fuck him properly. He thought he probably would, given his tendency to run full-speed-ahead into everything without even thinking about it. He’d probably be thrilled to try it, would probably bend right the fuck over and offer it to Draco.

Draco found himself throwing his head back and groaning, his hand working over his cock faster and harder as he pictured what it might be like, the first time he plunged into Harry’s hole. He’d be so fucking tight, but he’d love it, Draco knew he’d love it. He’d be eager, just as he’d been eager to grab Draco’s cock that night in his bed, and _god_ , why had Draco not just allowed that to happen? Merlin, he could’ve broken things off with Blaise the next morning. It was a prime example of why a conscience was no good, see, because it led to shitty decisions like _that._

But it was fine, and Draco would rid Harry of Ginevra, and then he’d get to have him and hold him and fuck him and then, who even knew, maybe he _would_ marry the git eventually –

Draco cried out as he came in hot spurts over his hand, and then blinked in disbelief at it as it was whisked away down the drain.

Did he just make himself come thinking about _marrying_ Harry Potter?

Oh, for fuck’s sake. Pansy was right.

He _was_ a sap.

After Draco’s long, exhausting shower, he went with Harry to the library. It was Draco’s favorite room in the townhouse. It wasn’t massive like the library at Malfoy Manor, wasn’t two stories high with thousands of books. It was a single, normal-sized room, with a stately fireplace and wall-to-wall shelves. There was a desk in one corner, a relic from the Manor with a glowing, mahogany top and legs edged in ivory trim. There was also a very cozy rug in front of the fireplace, and two soft, leather armchairs to really sink yourself into.

Harry and Draco started out on the chairs as they talked over the meetings with the Board members that were to take place next week. Eventually, though, they both drifted down to the rug, sprawling out close to the heat of the flames. Draco was on his back and Harry was on his stomach, head propped up by one hand. He was the one taking notes, covering parchment in his chicken-scratch scrawl. Draco should’ve been the one taking notes – his penmanship was excellent – but he was too relaxed to worry about it.

Not that these meetings were going to be easy. They were meeting with each of the members individually, and then, finally, would be presenting their proposal at the Board meeting that was to take place at the end of April, right after they returned from Easter hols.

Draco had done some preliminary poking into the lives of the Board members, just to find out who they were and where their loyalties might lie, and Harry had reached out to each of them briefly via owl and firecall. Three of the twelve would almost certainly be voting against the proposal. They needed seven yes votes in order for it to pass, or six yes votes, plus McGonagall. Unfortunately, Draco had no idea where the Headmistress stood. She was being very opaque about the whole thing.

But, whether they needed six or seven, it wasn’t going to be easy.

They’d already set the foundation in place, though: for the last week or so, the Board members had been receiving calls and owls from current students, alumni, and faculty members in support of the proposal. One Board member – Octavia Blatt, a former Hufflepuff – sent Harry an owl last week informing him that she intended to support it. And that was before even hearing much about it. It had been very good news.

They were going over the questions they expected the Board to ask. A lot of it was probably going to be about Quidditch and the founders’ intentions, and Draco was anticipating some personal queries, too – ‘What if my son’s a sixth-year Gryffindor; will he suddenly be without a house?’, and things of that nature.

“Ugh, Draco,” Harry whined, collapsing onto his parchment. “I’m sick of this. Let’s do something fun.”

_Sure thing_ , though Draco. _Take your trousers off_. He chuckled and Harry pulled his head off of the floor to look at him with a raised brow.

“Why are you giggling to yourself over there?”

“Don’t you wish you knew?” Draco teased.

“Um, yeah, that’s why I’m asking, prat.”

“I’m laughing at you, Potter. Hardy har har. I find you amusing.”

Harry chucked the roll of parchment at Draco’s face, followed by the quill. “Come on. If I sit here any longer I’m going to lose my mind.”

Draco was rather comfortable and sleepy, particularly after his nice wank. But, okay. He supposed they could do something. “We could grab lunch, if you want.”

“Is it time for lunch already?” Harry asked.

Draco pulled out his pocket watch. “Twelve-fifteen,” he declared. “Officially lunch time.”

“Do you think your mum would want to come with us?” Harry asked.

They hadn’t seen his mother since tea yesterday. Draco was used to her spending long periods of time by herself in her room – she had been doing that since Father died. But perhaps she’d like the company, the chance to get out of the house. “I could ask. You’d really want her to?”

“Yes, of course,” Harry said. “Unless…wait. I’m probably going to have to dress up if she goes, aren’t I? Because we’ll probably go somewhere nice.”

Draco laughed. “Dunno. I’m sure you can borrow a jumper of mine. Might be a little tight around the chest. You know what Pansy says about your pectorals, after all.”

He was rewarded with a slight blush. “Fuck off,” Harry said.

“I’m not even kidding, Potter. Your pectorals are stupendous. They’ll probably stretch my jumper right out. They’re just so powerful.”

Harry’s cheeks went even pinker. “Ugh, I said fuck offfff. Stop making fun of me, you arse.”

Draco reached over and pinched Harry in the neighborhood of his nipple, and Harry swatted him away, giggling.

Draco thought he probably needed to go get his mother, or this was going to devolve into another tickle-fest, and look where that had gotten them last time. He sighed and stood up. “I’ll go ask her, yeah?”

Harry jumped up. “I’ll go with, if you want.”

Draco had no idea if his mother would be in a state to see guests. Sometimes she was, sometimes not. “I’d better go by myself. Some days…she has some bad days. If this is a bad one, she won’t want to see anybody but me and Dinky.”

Harry’s eyes softened with understanding. “Oh, right. ‘S fine. I’ll wait here.”

Draco nodded, and set off down the hall. His mother was on the third floor, in a bedroom that took up mor than half the space up there. He knocked gently at the door. “Mother?”

“Yes, Draco, come in,” she said. She sounded much more cheerful than he’d expected. He breathed a sigh of relief.

She was seated before a little desk that sat in the corner, going through a stack of correspondence. “Trying to catch up on business regarding the Manor. I never realized just how much there was to keep track of.”

Draco sat in an armchair nearby. “You know, even though I’m not literally at the Manor, I can help you with this sort of thing. I’d be happy to.”

She shook her head resolutely. “Not until you’re out of school, dear. I don’t want you distracted from your studies.”

He nodded. “Right. Well. I wondered if you’d eaten lunch yet. Harry and I are going out to get something, and we thought you might want to accompany us. It was Harry’s idea, actually.”

His mother smiled. “Harry’s idea? Oh, well. I suppose I could. I’m not dressed for anything extravagant, though.”

She was wearing a lovely navy sheath dress with a matching cropped blazer and high heels and pearls, and her hair was in a low chignon. She looked a million times better than almost anyone out there would look. “You’re lovely,” he said. “Just right.”

“Draco,” she said, frowning. “Before I spend any more time with the two of you, I should know, shouldn’t I, whether….” She hesitated. “I haven’t forgotten what you said over the summer, about your…preferences. We haven’t spoken of it since, I know. It’s, well, it’s not what I expected, I won’t lie about that. But as I’ve thought about it, I’ve realized it doesn’t matter, not really. It’s not entirely unheard of, even amongst pureblood families. Why, your great-great-uncle Cepheus wed another man -- Uncle Bernhard -- and they even managed to produce an heir, with some assistance from Bernhard’s sister.”

Draco didn’t necessarily want to know that. Thank Merlin neither he nor Harry had any sisters.

“What I’m trying to say,” his mother continued, “is that I’ve determined that what matters is your happiness. I want you to be with someone who loves you and protects you. And so, I wondered. Are you and Harry, you know. Together?”

Draco cleared his throat and tried to keep himself sitting straight and tall. “We’re friends, Mother, as I’ve said. But…maybe. Maybe in the future. I don’t know for certain.”

She nodded. “Yes, I know these things can take time. Only…you could do worse, you know. If you choose to be with a man, then Harry Potter isn’t a bad candidate. He is well-loved by many people in power. Loved even more by the public. He’ll go far, with his connections, I think. He’ll be influential, like your father –” her voice gave out here, and Draco wanted to take her hand, to comfort her. But it was not how they behaved in his family. He sat by patiently, and eventually, she collected herself, looking him in the eye. “It would be no small thing, to avail yourself of his resources.”

“Yes, I’ve thought of that.” He had, of course. He hadn’t been sorted into Slytherin for nothing. “But, I – that’s not why. Not why I would pursue this.”

“Then why?” his mother asked, raising her brow.

“Why did you marry Father? For his connections?”

She lifted her mouth up into a tiny smile, and Draco caught a glimpse of the girl she had been, once, beautiful and admired, surrounded by her sisters and her friends, catching the attention of a pair of gray eyes from across the Slytherin Common Room. “No, of course not. I married him for love,” she said.

“And do you think I would settle for anything less?”

She tilted her head. Shook it. “No. I think you would not.”

“Mm. There we are, then.” He stood. “We’ll see you in the foyer shortly?” He knew she would want to freshen up, do some of those dozens of things women did to prepare themselves to face the world.

“Yes, I’ll be right down,” she replied. He felt her curious eyes on him as he left the room.

He’d done rather well in there, he thought. And so had she.

They found a tucked-away French restaurant for lunch. It wasn’t the first time his mother had eaten in a muggle establishment, but she didn’t make a habit of it. He could tell this place won her over, though. He’d picked well. It was quiet and upscale in an understated way, with fresh flowers on the tables and Blue Willow patterned fine china. The muggles that filled it were of his mother’s ilk, ladies in smart trousers and dresses, men in cashmere jumpers and blazers. Also, they had her favorite Sancerre on the menu, which helped. She ordered a bottle and they split it, and Draco had to admit, the feel of it was glorious on his tongue. He was usually a red wine fellow himself, but the bright, herbal bite of the Sancerre was really doing it for him. Or maybe he was just in a very fine mood.

Harry looked a little intimidated by the place, although Draco had dressed him appropriately, in a pair of beige trousers and a white collared shirt underneath a royal blue jumper. He’d spelled the trousers a bit shorter to fit, but the jumper had been fine. He was impressed by how comfortable Harry seemed, though, in conversation with his mother. Both were eager to get to know one another, and both were on their absolute best behavior. Harry was even managing to string complete sentences together.

After paying the (hefty, for lunch) bill, Draco steered them both out into the street and towards the townhouse. He walked a step or two behind Harry and his mother, letting them talk, and nearly melting when Harry offered her his hand to help her over a steep curb.

She surprised them both when they got back to the townhouse. As she was peeling off her gloves, she said, “I’m attending the opening of a gallery in Mayfair with Theodosia this evening at seven. It will be a mixed event – the proprietor is wizard, but the artwork is both wizard and muggle-made. Would you boys like to join us?”

Draco and Harry looked at each other. An art gallery sounded interesting. Draco knew little about art beyond the Impressionist Era, but he could usually appreciate it well enough. “Sure,” Harry said, answering for them both. “We’d love to.”

“Excellent,” said his mother. “Plan to be ready right around seven-fifteen. We wouldn’t want to be too early, and besides, we’ll be able to apparate there.” With that, she strode away in the direction of the kitchen, probably to speak with Dinky and Fimple.

“What do you think?” asked Harry. “Was that okay? I didn’t know if you wanted to go, but you looked like maybe you did.”

“I’d like to go,” Draco assured him. “It seems like a worthwhile thing, to know more about art, doesn’t it?”

Harry shrugged. “Worthwhile? I guess. I just like it. I got excited about the chance to see something like that. Don’t know much about it – I hope nobody there tries to talk to me, because I won’t know what the fuck I’m talking about -- but I really enjoy looking at it.” He glanced over towards the wall. “Like that,” he said, pointing at the gloriously preserved classical sculpture that stood there. “I could look at that all day. It’s so gorgeous.”

Draco supposed it was. It was a priceless piece of art, he knew that. Preserved by ancient Greek wizards, sold to collectors in Istanbul, and purchased by a Malfoy sometime in the late 1700’s, it was worthy of any museum. “It is,” he said, and watched, as Harry stepped closer.

“The lines of her, they’re so incredible. It looks like she might take off at any moment, keep running across the room. And I love her expression, like she wants to be caught, by whoever’s chasing her.” He stared for a little longer, looking like he wanted to touch. “Can you imagine being able to do that? To make something like this? Merlin.”

“No, not really,” Draco said. “I’m not very artistic. I can draw, like, brooms and wizard hats.”

Harry laughed, but he was still staring at the sculpture. “I dunno if I’m artistic or not. I’ve never really considered it. But lately…” he looked over at Draco, his eyes earnest. “You remember those pictures in the dressing room last night?”

Draco frowned, then shook his head. “No.”

“They were paintings, of men, in all these crazy colors, and they looked chaotic, like someone had just thrown the paint across the room, but you could still feel something coming from them, different emotions, from their expressions, or whatever, even though you could barely tell that they were men at all. I mean, god. How do you do that? How do you convey so much through some splatters?” He shook his head. “I dunno. I’d never thought about it before, but lately, I just. I like looking at it. At things like this.”

“Maybe you ought to turn collector. It would be a respectable hobby. You have the money.”

Harry shrugged. “Yeah, maybe,” he said, dropping it. “Want to play a game or something for a while? Exploding Snap?”

Draco felt like he’d let him down, somehow. “Harry,” he began carefully. “Do you…are you saying you’d like to learn how? How to sculpt or paint or something?”

Harry looked at him sharply. “Dunno. Why?”

Draco sighed. “Because you _could_ , you git. There’s no reason why you couldn’t if you wanted to. Salazar knows you might be pants at it, but you might not, and either way, there’s no harm in trying.”

“I guess I could try to find a weekend class or something,” Harry said, rubbing the back of his heck. “Once we’re done with school.”

“Or, you know. Don’t become an Auror. Give this a whirl instead. You can always be an Auror later if you find out you hate it or you suck at it.”

“That’s mad, Draco. I’m expected to become an Auror. A lot of people are counting on it. They’d be cross with me if I suddenly changed my mind.”

Draco shook his head. “Fuck them, then. You literally died to save us, Harry. You _gave your fucking life_ to save us. They can go to hell with their demands of your time now. Do whatever the fuck you want. That’s my advice.”

Harry was breathing rather heavily and looked like he might topple over. “Er, yeah. Never really thought about it like that before.”

“Maybe you should start.”

“Yeah. I guess.” He was quiet for a moment, staring at the statue, and then looked back at Draco. “So, Exploding Snap?”

“Git,” Draco laughed.


	20. Weekend Getaway, Part III

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Art galleries and dance clubs and pretend boyfriends, oh my

Drive boy dog boy  
Dirty numb angel boy  
In the doorway boy  
She was a lipstick boy  
She was a beautiful boy  
And tears boy  
And all in your innerspace boy  
You had  
hands girl boy  
and steel boy  
You had chemicals boy  
I've grown so close to you  
Boy and you just groan boy  
She said comeover comeover  
She smiled at you boy.

**_Born Slippy .NUXX_ / Underworld**

* * *

Harry was certain he had never been around people who were this cool before. Thank god he’d let Draco talk him into wearing the outfit he’d purchased last night, otherwise he’d be wearing Ernie’s jumper again, which, to his mind, was quite nice, but definitely wasn’t right for this crowd.

Even Mrs. Malfoy looked unquestionably fashionable, which was something he’d never thought he’d say about anybody’s mum or dad, ever. But she’d eschewed her normal robes and 1950’s socialite garb in favor of billowy black trousers and sort of an angularly-cut black jacket with oversize lapels and big shoulders, and these earrings that looked kind of like explosions of confetti. And she also had on shoes that looked like deadly weapons, impossibly high heels with little steel spikes all over them. Her friend Theodosia was even trendier, wearing a short, flowy, emerald-green dress and zebra print heels and had lavender streaks in her blonde hair.

And Draco. Well. Holy mother of Merlin. He had on the tightest black leather pants Harry’d ever seen in his life, and a gauzy white button-up shirt with the sleeves rolled to the elbows, along with those black boots he’d bought, as well as a black choker and about a dozen bracelets. His hair was loose, cutting across his forehead, and he looked fucking _edible_ , honestly. He was so hot, and he looked so unapproachably cool, that Harry was having trouble talking to him normally. He had literally overheard conversations about Draco multiple times now, where people were trying to figure out which pieces were his, because of course he was an artist, because no one else could possibly look like that.

As for Harry, he looked fine. Good for him, although decidedly average, probably, for this crowd. He was still having a really great time, though. They had free wine, which was nice. Harry thought he could get used to wine. But what was more, there was so much to look at. There was Draco, of course, and Harry was looking at him a whole hell of a lot. But there were also really interesting paintings and sculptures and photographs and something called ‘found-object art’ and dioramas and all sorts of fascinating things.

Harry decided, as he examined piece after piece (feeling, for once, like he was allowed to look and look and look and nobody would think it was weird), that he liked sculpture best. He wasn’t sure why. It was like he could imagine, almost, marking the clay, carving out the shape, working it in his hands. He found himself studying the pieces, eyes trailing over the angles and the lines of them, and itching to try to recreate them, just to see if he could.

The truth was, he’d probably make something ridiculous, some lopsided, clumsy attempt at creating a beautiful thing. But he didn’t care. He still desperately wanted to try.

“What do you think of this one?” said a nearby voice. Harry looked up and saw a guy in, probably, his early twenties, standing there, looking at the same piece he was. Harry was currently checking out a sculpture called _Patroclus_ , which was one of his favorites. He’d already been by to look at it twice.

It was only about a foot and a half tall, which was much smaller than many of the pieces, but Harry thought it was beautiful. It was a nude man, but it wasn’t especially risqué or anything – all the bits were so small, and not entirely distinct (his form was less and less specific the further down his body you got, so that his face was incredibly detailed, while his feet didn’t even have toes). He was standing suspended in what looked like a beam of light coming up from the ground in a broad, flat, sheet, half his body behind the sheet and half in front, like it was slicing him in two. His feet were pointed, almost like he was hanging there, or was doing ballet, and his arms were stretched to the sides gracefully, again, almost like he was dancing. The tiny wrists were angled delicately, and something about them made Harry’s chest feel tight. The sheet of light, or whatever, came up to his shoulders, and then above, his head was free, and loose, his expression rapturous. The piece was in gradient shades of color, from a deep, leather brown at the feet, to a clean white marble at the head.

“I love it,” Harry said. “You’d almost think he was bound by that thing, that sheet, or whatever it is. But then he’s free above the neck, and he _looks_ free, you know. His expression. It’s incredible.”

The man smiled. “Yeah, he is, I think. Free. The thing that’s holding him, he wants it to be there. He wants to be trapped. The thing, by the way, is meant to represent Achilles.”

“Like, the god?”

“Half-god, but yeah,” said the man. He was one of the most unassuming-looking people here, wearing a simple flannel and jeans, his hair pulled back into a ponytail.

“How do you know?”

“Because it’s mine,” he said. “I’m Felix.”

“Oh, oh my god. That’s…honestly, this is one of my favorite things here. I keep coming back to it.”

“I know, I saw. That’s why I wanted to ask.” He leaned a bit closer. “It’s my first exhibit, but don’t tell anyone. I’ve been fucking terrified that nobody would like my stuff.”

Harry laughed. “Well, one person does. Although I don’t know that my opinion counts for much.”

“Everybody’s opinion counts. It’s not…” he waved his hand around. “You listen to people talk like they have the right to say what’s great art, or real art, or whatever. Just because they pay a lot of money for it, or look at a lot of it, or because they sometimes create it. But nobody can say that. Art is merely a means of transforming some nebulous thing that exists inside of the artist into something tangible, so that it can be shared it with the rest of the world. It’s like a conversation. And of course we won’t all have the same conversation with everyone we meet. Every person’s response will be different. It’s communication. Nothing more. Nothing you can put a grade or a price on, even though that’s all we seem to want to do.”

Harry had no idea how to respond to this. He wanted to write it all down and try to memorize it, because it felt important, and true.

“So, I’m Felix Fletcher, by the way.” He offered his hand.

Harry shook it. “Harry Potter.”

“And why are you here, Harry? I’ve not seen you before at any of these things.”

“Erm, came with my friend, Draco.” He looked around and saw Draco in a conversation with a woman in tattered overalls and an iridescent tube top, but Draco’s eyes were on Harry. Harry waved and indicated that Draco should come over. He didn’t want him to think…well. He didn’t want Draco to think anything, about this conversation.

Draco stalked over, his expression cool, looking like the world’s grouchiest wet dream. He stood very close to Harry. “Hello,” he said. “And who might you be?”

Harry wanted to laugh. “This is Felix Fletcher. He made this.” He pointed.

“Mr. Fletcher,” Draco said. “Pleased to meet you. I’m Draco Malfoy.”

Harry remembered that imperious and distant tone, the haughty angling of Draco’s chin. Now that Harry knew Draco so well, he could see it for what it was. Not actual snobbery, but armor. Not knowing what, exactly, possessed him, he reached out and took Draco’s hand. Draco blinked down, looking at their joint hands with wide eyes, and then up at Harry, and then down once more.

“Pleased to meet you, too, Draco,” said Felix easily, not looking ruffled. “Cool name, by the way. I was talking to your boyfriend here about my piece, because, well, honestly, I wanted to talk to someone who liked my work. Needed a little ego boost.”

Harry saw Draco’s shoulders relax. “Ah. Harry’s very interested in all this. Me, I’m here for the free wine and the people-watching.”

Felix laughed. “You and ninety percent of the people in attendance. And at least your honest.”

“To a fault, sometimes,” Draco said, chuckling.

“You know, if you two aren’t busy later, there’s something really cool going on tonight. It’s an event in Brixton, at a club. There’s this local guy – Sterling Dachel – who does these sound and light and mural things in collaboration with some of the clubs around town. It’s…it’s really hard to describe, but it’s amazing. I’ve only been to one so far, but I’ve been trying to make it to another, and tonight's the night. You could come, if you wanted.”

“Yes,” said Harry, not even looking at Draco. “Yes, we’ll come.”

He felt Draco sort of pinch his hand, but he ignored it.

“Great,” said Felix. “This wraps up at ten. I’m sure you won’t stay the entire time, will you?”

“Probably not,” said Draco, and Harry pinched _him_.

“Well, come back then. Around 10:30, just to be safe – sometimes people want to stay late and talk. We can catch a cab over there. My friend Penny is coming, too. She’s here somewhere. Orange hair?”

“Yes, I was speaking with her a while ago,” Draco said. “She was rather…”

“She’s high as shit right now,” Felix said, grinning. “She likes to shroom before these things.”

“Oh,” said Harry, feeling very out of his league.

“Understandable,” said Draco, smirking, like he shroomed all the time, like it was no big deal. Harry was learning, more and more, that Draco talked a big game, but was, secretly, a rather tame person in many regards. Harry squeezed his hand, nicely this time.

“See you at around 10:30, then,” Felix said, nodding at them and turning to talk to someone else who was looking at one of his other pieces.

Draco dropped Harry’s hand. “Might I ask what on earth that was about?” he said softly, frowning.

“What?” asked Harry.

“Why did you grab my hand? Was he trying to talk you up or something? Was he making you uncomfortable?”

Harry laughed. “No, you idiot. He was just being nice and friendly. Nothing weird at all. I really think he was just chuffed that I liked his work. I took your hand because you looked like you were about to spit on him or hex him, and I wanted to avoid that.”

Draco huffed. “Well, you _are_ taken. The Weaslette wouldn’t like you flirting with Felix, now, would she? Maybe I was looking out for _her_ best interests.”

“Yeah,” Harry said, wanting to snog the hell out of Draco’s angry little pout. “I figured that was what it was.”

Draco nodded, looking mollified. “I’ll have to pretend to be your boyfriend all night now. Since you started the false narrative with that hand-holding shit. I should anyway, probably. Just to keep you safe from Felix, of course.”

Harry felt a huge grin sneaking over his face. “Yeah, you’d better. Felix does seem pretty shifty.”

Draco caught his eye and let out a snort of laughter.

The cab brought them to a neighborhood that was lightyears away from the upscale, spotless little corner of London that housed the townhouse. It was full of neon lights and rowdy young people of all different colors and shapes and sizes. A million different smells floated into the open cab windows, unfamiliar cooking spices mixed with industrial-type smells and more human ones. It had a tendency to shift from mouth-watering to positively vile in an instant.

Harry loved it.

Draco put an arm around Harry in the cab, for Felix’s benefit, of course, and it felt very nice – warm and solid. Harry found himself leaning back against Draco as he looked out at the city, feeling unfathomably content. He put a hand on Draco’s knee. For Felix, obviously.

Elevate was a nothing much from the outside, just a worn, grimy-looking, two-story building. But inside, it was like another world. The second floor overlooked the first, and it was packed with writhing bodies, people dancing and grinding on each other everywhere. Down on the first floor, some people were dancing, but some were just looking around in awe (and guzzling drinks).

Every inch of the walls had been painted with the maddest things Harry’d ever seen. There was one section that had a gigantic picture of a man hauling a fish with a human-like face over his shoulder, another with faces that were distorted all out of proportion, one that showed a two-story depiction of a shiny balloon animal with tits. One wall showed two men with their cocks out, wearing bull’s heads (or maybe _were_ part bull? Harry wasn’t sure.). Nothing really linked all the paintings besides the feeling you got looking at them, a feeling of madness, of absolute chaos, which was enhanced by the bass-heavy music playing and the way the lights streamed out over the walls in captivating patterns, flashing and blinking in a rainbow of colors. The whole thing made you feel like maybe you were in a very fun sort of hell.

“What do you think?” Felix yelled.

“it’s fantastic!” replied Harry.

“Brilliant,” agreed Draco, looking around, unable to keep his face schooled into the bored sneer he’d adopted in the cab.

Penny had talked a little bit in the cab, although Harry had literally _no_ idea what she was talking about. Something to do with tangerines and moving the furniture around in her flat. She appeared to be tripping balls. Felix kept his arm around her, and Harry wondered if they were together. Although he could’ve sworn Felix had been flirting with him just the tiniest bit. He supposed Felix could be like Harry, and like both.

“Want to get some drinks?” Draco asked.

“Yeah, how about you and Penny, Felix? You want anything?”

“I’d take a vodka soda. Don’t give a shit what kind,” Felix said, giving a sideways smile. “I think Penny’s probably okay. Maybe a water for her.”

Draco and Harry pushed their way through to the bar, passing a wild variety of people. Some were all done up, wearing nice, new-looking things and expensive shoes. Some looked raggedy and possibly homeless. Some wore lots of black eyeliner and had piercings all over their faces, and some wore trackies and oversized t-shirts. The vibe was all over the place, honestly, but everyone seemed to be having fun.

Draco ordered a gin and tonic, so Harry got one, too. While they were waiting for the drinks, Harry looked at Draco, who was peering up at the dancers along the second floor. His Adam’s apple was more apparent when he tilted his head back, like it had been that day in the snow. Harry, hardly able to imagine why he shouldn’t, ran his fingertips over it, lightly, just once, before pulling his hand away and feeling himself flush.

“Harry,” Draco warned, looking over at him.

“Just, you know, keeping up the façade, remember?” He laughed nervously. “You’re my pretend boyfriend.”

Draco’s eyes were hot on his. “Hm,” was all he said. His eyes flickered down to Harry’s mouth. “I think I’m going to go up there.”

“You…what? Up _there_?” Up there was where the crowd was writhing? Where Harry could very clearly see people grinding against each other and blatantly making out on the dance floor?

“Yes, Potter. It’s a club. I’d like to dance.”

“Er, okay. I think I’ll stick down here -- for now, at least. Until I get some more gin in me.”

Draco smiled and shook his head. “Tosser.”

“Git,” Harry said. “I’ll come find you after a drink or two.”

“Alright,” Draco said, one more flicker down the length of Harry’s body. “Tell that pervert Felix to keep his hands to himself.”

Harry burst out laughing. “Oh my god, you’re mad, he’s done literally nothing but be nice to us.”

Suddenly Draco was right up in Harry’s space, his face only inches from Harry’s, and Harry’s back was against the bar. The minty scent of his shampoo drifted over, and Harry realized he hadn’t been close enough to smell that in a while. He gulped.

Then Draco’s mouth was at his ear, and Harry felt a shiver down the length of his spine, a shiver that seemed to travel straight to his cock. “Yes, well, you have a _very_ _jealous_ pretend boyfriend,” Draco said softly, his lips brushing against Harry’s skin. Harry braced himself, felt his eyes flutter closed, because oh fuck, oh fuck, there was no way he was turning this down, not when Draco looked like _that_ , and had just said _that_ , and holy fucking shit –

And then then nothing happened.

Harry opened his eyes to see Draco reaching past him to grab his gin and tonic.

And then, without warning, he was striding away, taking those delicious leather trousers with him and throwing a smirk over his shoulder. “I’ll let you buy the drinks. Ta, Potter. Come find me later.”

Harry groaned and leaned back against the bar and wondered if wanking in the loo was, like, completely out of the question.

Four gin and tonics in and Harry was considering, maybe, going upstairs.

He was hanging out with Felix and Penny and a few of their other friends who had been trickling in. They were an obviously artsy group, each one of them with a very particular aesthetic. Felix wore his flannel shirt and came off as very down-to-earth, like he sculpted his masterpieces in his garage, probably.

Penny was kind of a hippy, with her cloud of bright orange hair and her shrooms and her flowery baby doll dress and her habit of spinning dreamily every now and then without regard to the fact that nobody near them was dancing at all. Harry envisioned what it would be like to introduce her to Luna, whether the two of them would just float away into the ether together. She told Harry, in great detail, how she liked to paint in the nude while tripping.

A guy named Daniel was pierced to the gills and clad in all black, and said that he ‘worked with iron’ when Harry asked what sort of art he made. Harry honestly had no idea what that meant, but he pictured him with maybe a blowtorch or something, probably listening to heavy metal.

A girl named Eloise was also a sculptor, like Felix, but apparently, she sculpted mainly cocks and vaginas, and her most recent exhibit was entitled “In The Flesh” and had been featured in a University of London periodical. She was very conservative looking – almost mousy – but she told Harry what she did without batting an eye. 

One of the other guys, named Robbie, said huffily that he wasn’t a visual artist, but a playwright. Once Harry got that right, though, Robbie ended up being okay, and the play he was working on, about the murder of a high school principal, sounded morbidly funny.

All in all, they were fascinating, the sort of people that Harry never imagined meeting. He couldn’t help but wonder what it would be like, to go to a school like Goldsmiths, where many of them went, and meet a whole collection of people like this, people who lived for their creative passion, who spent their days learning about it and talking about it and probably dreaming about it. He thought it sounded pretty incredible, really.

“Is Draco ever coming back?” Felix asked, giving Harry a grin. “He’s been up there forever.”

“Yeah, I dunno,” Harry said, looking up at the second floor for what seemed like the thousandth time. “I might try to find him.”

“I can talk some of these fucks into going up there, if you like. So you won’t be lonely,” Felix said with a wink.

Harry _was_ admittedly a dunderhead when it came to these things, but a wink seemed…flirty? Flirty-ish?

“Are you and Penny together?” Harry asked, his gaze flickering over to where Penny was doing another twirly dance.

“Me and Pen? Nah. I’m strictly dickly. Besides, Pen…she’s like my sister, practically.”

“Oh,” said Harry, flustered. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to…sorry.”

“’S fine,” Felix said. “How were you to know?”

Harry shrugged, although, honestly, it seemed like he just _should_.

“Oi!” shouted Felix to the group. “Anyone up for dancing upstairs?”

Penny practically leapt with joy. “Oh, me! Me!” she exclaimed. Robbie and Eloise also agreed to give upstairs a go.

After a quick stop by the bar for refills, they made their way up the stairs. Harry found himself getting unreasonably nervous as they climbed. Although, honestly, what the fuck had Draco been doing up here this whole time? Had he met a whole new set of people to dance with? Was he secretly a Penny, twirling around by himself?

Felix and his friends found a vacant space against one of the glass barriers that overlooked the lower level, and, still chatting and laughing, began to dance. Penny was floaty, just like she had been downstairs, and Eloise began to dance very low to the ground, shaking her arse in a way that was quite unexpected, and sort of explained her x-rated artwork. Within moments some muscley, tattooed guy was dancing close behind her. Robbie and Felix moved around the way blokes tended to, but they didn’t look half bad doing it.

“I’m going to find Draco,” Harry yelled over to Felix.

“We’ll be here,” said Felix.

Harry gulped at his fifth gin and tonic, scanning the crowd. It was really crowded in here now, and the crazy lights made it hard to see too far away. 

He chugged down the rest of his drink and set it on the closest table and made his way around the space, looking for a white shirt and white-blonde hair. Draco didn’t seem to be _anywhere_ , damn it. If he had his wand, he could shut down all the sound and bring up the lights and just start screaming for him.

Because that was rational.

Finally, when Harry’d almost completed the entire square of second-floor space, he spotted him. He was up on a stage with one of the prettiest girls Harry’d ever seen in his life, dancing with her and looking way too fucking good doing it, and they were laughing together.

Harry felt a wholly irrational sweep of jealousy. Draco didn’t even like girls, not even girls that looked like that. And they weren’t dancing very dirty, like some people were. A little dirty, Harry supposed, but it looked like they were just goofing around.

Harry watched Draco move with a sense of something like awe. Sweet Merlin, how did Draco know how to dance like a muggle? Harry knew exactly what kind of dancing purebloods did; he’d seen it at the Yule Ball at school. It was, like, the polar opposite of this. And yet there Draco was, looking unbelievably hot, and dancing really well to muggle music.

Honestly. The bastard.

Harry leaned back against a wall and took him in, just letting himself watch. Draco had none of the self-consciousness that most guys had. He was perfectly at home in his body, somehow, and Harry found it marvelous. Draco’s hair was fairly well messed, getting in his eyes so that he had to keep pushing it out of the way. The pale blonde hue was taking on all the colors of the strobe lights, looking pink and light blue and almost silvery in turns. Harry thought it wouldn’t be terrible to just stand here and watch him for the rest of the night. It was sort of nice. Besides, if the leather trousers had looked good when he was just walking around in them, they looked even _better_ when he was up there shaking his arse.

Draco happened to glance up, finally, and their eyes met. Harry watched him whisper something to the girl and then jump down off of the stage, leaving her to join back up with her friends.

“Should I be jealous? Since you _are_ my pretend boyfriend, after all.” Harry said, grinning.

“Right, because I came to one muggle club and decided suddenly that oh yes, I’d like to give vaginas another go.” Draco was pulling on the front of his shirt, trying to cool off. His chest, what was visible above the button of his shirt, anyway, was flushed, and so were his cheeks.

Harry burst out laughing. “That’s what I figured.”

“What was I to do? I had to find _someone_ , for Merlin’s sake. My pretend boyfriend doesn’t like to dance.”

“No, he doesn’t,” Harry said.

“We could find a dark, quiet corner and just…try? Hm?” He raised one of his eyebrows.

Hell yes, Harry very much wanted to be in a dark, quiet corner with Draco. “No,” he groaned instead. “I’m terrible.”

“I thought you were going to get all liquored up for this exact reason,” Draco said.

“I _tried_ , I swear,” Harry said. “I’m five drinks in!”

Draco started laughing so hard he had to clutch his stomach. “Salazar’s balls, Potter, it’s been, like, an hour.”

“Shut up, wanker!” Harry cried. “I was trying to work up the courage to come up here.”

“You fucking git,” Draco said, wiping his eyes and trying to calm himself. “Come here.” He began pushing Harry in the direction of a suspiciously dark corner, back behind the little stage.

“What’re you doing?” Harry asked, blinking up at Draco’s face, which was suddenly very close again.

“Close your eyes,” Draco said. “Just listen.”

Harry tried, but mostly he was just thinking that Draco was right there, so close he could smell him.

“ _Listen_ , Harry, fuck’s sake.”

Harry listened. “Yeah, alright. Music.”

“Bass. It’s so loud your whole body can feel it.”

Harry listened again, and yeah, he sort of could. Suddenly Draco’s hands were at his waist, Draco’s fingers tapping in time to the music against Harry’s skin.

“When you dance like an idiot, it’s only because you’re thinking too much about it. All that matters is the beat, and letting yourself feel it. It’s a bit like fucking, Potter.”

Harry felt his breath hitch.

“Pansy said you were glorious in bed, so I suspect you know how to turn off your brain while you’re pleasuring someone. You _stop_ thinking. You move purely on instinct, react to physical cues without a thought at all. This is exactly like that. Make sense?”

“Yeah,” Harry said, and his voice sounded raw. Fucking _hell_.

There was an incredible song on now, something that sounded pure and luminous, all synth, with a sort of chanting voice cutting through it, that made Harry feel like he was floating, made him think of how the lights looked flashing off of Draco’s hair, all pinks and soft blues, like how heaven might look. And then suddenly, it was as though the bottom fell out, and the bass was hitting hard and furiously fast. He felt Draco take his hands and put them on his waist. He could smell Draco’s hair close to his nose; he must have turned around. Then he felt Draco’s arse pushing against him, and suddenly they were moving, and Harry did it, he stopped caring, he didn’t give a fuck what he looked like, because this felt so good, holy fuck, it felt good, like flying.

The beat wouldn’t let up, and there were some sort of insane lyrics accompanying it, and none of them made sense. It made Harry think of the paintings all along the walls downstairs, and he thought that maybe none of it needed to make sense at all, it just needed to communicate a feeling, some essential thing, and Harry couldn’t have verbalized what that was, but he felt it. He felt it all in his chest and in his hands and in his hips and his cock as Draco pressed back against it. It was elemental, something that didn’t require words or thoughts at all.

His hands were all over Draco as they danced, feeling his damp, hot skin, almost feverish, feeling the smooth, supple leather of his trousers, and the soft scratch of his shirt.

After what seemed like a beautiful eternity, the bass suddenly cut out, and it was back to that sweet synth from the beginning, the part that felt almost surreal, or holy, or some such shit. Draco turned in his arms, and Harry watched, mesmerized, as he snaked his hands around his neck, his face glowing and radiant and pink-cheeked. He pressed his forehead to Harry’s, and Harry could feel his breath, felt the whole world narrow to those soft exhalations. Draco’s eyes, with their rings, were locked onto Harry’s, and he felt so good and right against him, utterly perfect.

And then, much too soon, the song was over, and Draco stepped back, a smooth mask slipping over his features. “Not bad,” he said. “I thought you’d be much worse.”

Harry really couldn’t breathe or think, so he tried to huff out a laugh, only it came out kind of strangled and weird.

“Draco! Come back up here!” yelled the pretty girl from the stage.

He smiled. “Yes, alright,” he called back. “You ready to handle the stage?” Draco asked, with the raise of a fine brow.

“Um, no. Definitely not ready for the stage yet,” Harry said, still reeling. “I’m going to go…go find Felix and Penny. They’re close by.”

Draco nodded, looking, suddenly, unsure. “I can come with you, if you like?”

“It’s fine, Draco. I’ll come find you if Felix tries to take advantage of me.”

“Hah, no, I know, just…let’s go home, yeah? I kind of want to go home.”

“Oh, er. Sure, yeah. We can.” Harry paused. “Are you okay?” He looked Draco over, worried by something in his voice. He knew people sometimes were slipped things in clubs and he felt his heart speed up at the thought that somebody might have done that to Draco. “You don’t feel woozy or anything, do you?”

“No, nothing like that,” Draco huffed. “I’m _fine_. It’s only…well. I like to dance, sure. I’m having fun. But I’d rather just hang out with you. So if you don’t feel like dancing anymore, we can go. We should go.”

“Oh my god, did I somehow guilt you into this? I totally don’t care if you want to dance, for Merlin’s sake! I wasn’t trying to make you feel like I didn’t want you to, geeze.”

Draco rolled his eyes and looked supremely irritated. “I _know_ , you fucking idiot. I’m trying to tell you that I just want to do something with _you_ , Harry, not my little club girlfriend. _You_. I don’t give a shit what it is.”

“Oh, um.” Harry felt like maybe he had no more body anymore, because it seemed to be floating away, light as air. “Yeah. Well. Let’s go home then.”

“ _Thank_ you,” Draco said. “ _Merlin_ , you’re tough sometimes.”

“I’m so fun that I make up for it, though, right?” Harry said, giving him a lopsided grin.

“Sure, keep telling yourself that, Potter,” Draco said, trying to look stern and failing. “Come on, let’s go say goodbye to that fucking man-stealer, Felix.”

Harry realized, once they got outside, that he was actually quite pissed. It seemed much more obvious outside of the frantic club atmosphere, out in the relative quiet of the city. They ducked into a nearby alley. “Side-along?” asked Draco, offering a hand.

Harry took it, and one nauseating moment later, they were standing in the foyer of the townhouse.

“Would you care for a nightcap?” Draco asked, striding in the direction of the dining room.

“This whole night has been one long nightcap. But fine, sure. What’s another brain cell or two?” Harry said.

“That’s the spirit,” said Draco.

They didn’t go all the way to the dining room, but stopped in one of the pretty little sitting rooms, this one with two cream-colored loveseats with sage and yellow pillows and two buttery-yellow wingback chairs. There was also a gleaming cabinet against the wall that Draco opened to reveal shining bottles of liquor. “Firewhiskey – _blech_ , gin, scotch, a few things that I’ve never heard of, rum…what do you say, Harry?”

“Erm, scotch? Always wanted to be the sort who drinks scotch.”

“Mm, yes, lofty goal indeed,” Draco said, pouring it into two shining crystal glasses and adding a big square of ice to each. “Here you are, sir.” He handed Harry a glass. “To many more days of dancing not terribly.”

Harry clinked his glass while scowling. “Fucker.”

Draco went and reclined on one of the loveseats, looking obscenely decadent with his sparkling glass of scotch and his black leather pants atop the spotless cream of the sofa.

Harry would be sitting practically on top of him if he sat on the same sofa, so he sat on the other one, which faced it.

“So, you’re going to go be an artist next year, is that what I’m sensing?” asked Draco after taking a thoughtful sip.

“Hell if I know,” Harry said, truthfully. “I did think about it, though. You didn’t really talk to all of Felix’s friends, but…they’re really interesting. Kind of quirky, but. I liked them. I liked that they all kind of did the same thing, and could talk about it together.”

“You know,” Draco said. “If you had told me last fall that Harry Potter was going to become my friend, declare himself a bisexual, wage a campaign to rid Hogwarts of his beloved Gryffindor House, and turn down his fast-track career path to Head Auror in order to go to art school, I’d have laughed in your goddamned face.”

Harry practically spit out his mouthful of scotch. Instead, he swallowed it but choked a little, and then started laughing. “Yeah, well, if you’d have told me Draco Malfoy was going to become _my_ friend and was going to be wearing leather pants in a muggle dance club and going for runs in muggle trainers every morning – not to mention the trackies – I’d have taken you right to St. Mungo’s and left you there.”

Draco grinned. “We’re full of surprises, the two of us.”

“We are,” Harry said. He took another swig of his scotch and set it down on the side table and stripped off his leather jacket and tossed it aside before settling down onto the sofa, his head on a pillow, one foot bent at the knee, the other dangling off the edge.

“Yeah, so,” Draco said. “Speaking of leather trousers. Don’t mind me, but I’ve got to take these fucking things off. They’re not made for lounging.”

Harry laughed as Draco peeled them off with some effort. “I can’t imagine why not. Is it the absolute lack of ventilation or the fact that they were probably a few sizes too small?”

“They fit perfectly, I’ll have you know. Will even said so.”

“Yeah, well. Will was just enjoying the view, I reckon.”

“Probably true,” said Draco, curling up on his sofa and facing Harry. He reached for his wand and summoned two blankets from the back of a wingback chair that sat in the corner of the room and tossed one to Harry, who spread it out over himself.

“This was a really fun weekend,” Harry said. “Can we maybe do this every weekend? Or will your mum kick me out on my arse?”

“For some fucking reason, my mother seems to enjoy you. But no, I think we probably ought to be wringing as much fun as we can out of our last couple of months at that shithole of a school.”

Harry giggled. “Oh, it’s not so bad. At least, it’s not when there’s not a war being fought, you know, literally on school grounds.”

“Oh my god. It’s no fucking wonder we’re all walking around mentally deranged this year. Fuck’s sake. The shit we all saw.”

“Mm,” Harry said. He closed his eyes for a moment, thinking, before opening them back up. “What do you think about? Like, those nights you can’t sleep and all that?”

Draco shot him a sharp glance before looking back up at the ceiling. Harry saw his throat bob. “Oh, I dunno. All sorts of things. I call them my Wartime Greatest Hits.” Harry chuckled at this. “They include, but are not limited to, watching both my parents get Crucioed when they displeased the noseless one; having him literally tell me he was going to kill them slowly and painfully if I failed in my tasks. Um, watching Hermione get tortured by my loon of an aunt; thinking _you_ were dead when Hagrid was hauling your limp body around outside the school; getting cut open in the bathroom – no offense – and truly believing I was bleeding to death; watching one of my oldest friends fall into Fiendfyre; watching Luna suffer down there in my cellar and not being able to do much of anything about it besides bring her a bit of food when I could; oh, and um, being molested by Dolohov. That one’s fun, too. And then there’s my dad dying in fucking Azkaban.”

“Jesus, Draco,” Harry breathed.

“What, like yours is so much better? It’s probably worse than mine.”

“It’s more just…I think about people I lost. Sirius. I miss him a lot, fuck. I never had a dad, you know, and then all of a sudden, there was this person in my life who was my dad’s best friend, and who was kind of like a stand-in for him or something, and he really cared about me, like, a lot, and then – gone. Just gone. And Lupin and Tonks and Fred and…just. I dunno, you know. I don’t know where they are. If they are somewhere, still. And I wonder if they’re mad at me, for fucking things up, for not helping them when they needed it. For not killing Voldemort sooner, so that we didn’t have to go through all that we did.”

“Are you kidding me right now?” Draco cried, sounding almost angry. “You’re an absolute cockhead, Harry. We’d _all_ be fucked if it weren’t for you. Salazar’s salty balls, you…you did everything you possibly could. No one – literally, no one – could’ve managed more. Be mad at yourself for your atrocious fashion sense, but don’t be mad at yourself for that, for _fuck’s_ sake.”

Harry’s chest felt both heavy and light. He felt full of something, only he didn’t know what. “You’re such a dick, Malfoy,” he said, trying to smile.

“You love me, Potter,” Draco said archly. “You said I’m your best friend. Don’t try to pretend otherwise, you’ll just make a fool of yourself.”

“Wait a second, _you’re_ the one who said _I_ was _your_ best friend,” Harry laughed.

“Yes, well, you said it back. So there,” Draco replied.

“Yeah, well, it’s true. So there.”

They looked at each other for a moment, and then Draco let out a huge yawn. “I’m sleeping right here, I think.”

Harry yawned back. “Sounds good to me. Hey, if I take my jeans off, will your mother come down and find me in my pants in the morning? Because that would be embarrassing.”

“No, Mother’s not a morning person,” Draco said. His eyelids looked heavy, like he could hardly keep them open. “So long as we’re up by ten or so, we’re fine. I’ll set an alarm.”

“Yeah, okay,” Harry said, unbuttoning and unzipping his jeans and sliding them off. Draco dimmed the lights with a flick of his wand. “Hey, Draco?”

“Mm hm?”

“What helps? What keeps you from thinking about that stuff?”

Draco’s eyes blinked open, silver in the moonlight. “Lots of sex. Hanging out with you. Running every day. That’s about all I’ve got.”

Harry nodded. “Why d’you think that is? With me and you?”

“No clue,” Draco said. “Maybe I’m too busy wondering what the fuck goes on in that head of yours all day to think about all that shit.”

Harry laughed and then yawned again. “I’m glad, whatever the reason. I’m glad it’s like that.”

“Me too,” Draco mumbled, and then when Harry glanced over again, he seemed to be asleep.

Harry stared up at the ceiling, thinking, and none of it was about the war at all.


	21. Weekend Getaway, the Culmination

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A weekend's worth of tension comes to a...er...head.

I love myself, I want you to love me  
When I'm feeling down, I want you above me  
I search myself, I want you to find me  
I forget myself, I want you to remind me  
  
I don't want anybody else  
When I think about you, I touch myself  
Oh, I don't want anybody else, oh, no  
Oh, no, oh, no

**_I Touch Myself_ ** **/ Divinyls**

* * *

Draco had drifted off, somehow, but not into a very deep sleep, because something, some sound, woke him soon after.

He blinked his eyes open in the darkened room, feeling disoriented for a moment before remembering that he was one of the townhouse’s sitting rooms with Harry. His mind started to go over the incredible night they’d had, and how dreamy it had all been, and quite romantic, really, when he heard a soft moan.

He stilled, and suddenly he felt much more awake, his heart picking up speed. He glanced over to the other loveseat, the one that Harry was sleeping on, only Harry wasn’t sleeping.

His face was bathed in moonlight, his lips parted gently. His eyes were closed, his eyelashes sooty half-circles against his cheeks. He looked achingly beautiful, luminous.

His white t-shirt, the expensive one that looked so good on him, was pulled halfway up his chest, revealing the lean muscles of his stomach and the little trail of dark hair below his belly button.

And, also, he had his hand on his cock.

He was trailing it slowly up and down the shaft, and Draco looked, _really_ looked, and his breath caught, because it was gorgeous, pink and thick and glistening with a bit of come that had leaked from the tip.

Harry’s pants were pulled down far, or possibly completely off, and his legs were spread open, his other hand dipping below his cock and moving leisurely over his balls.

Harry was writhing, a bit, his back lifting up off the loveseat on occasion, and he was being quiet-ish, but he was making little breathy, panting noises, and suddenly Draco’s cock was so hard it hurt.

As quietly and discreetly as possible, he let himself slip his hand underneath the waistband of his pants, trailing his fingers over the tip of his cock. He desperately wanted to yank his pants down, but he didn’t want to move or make too much noise, for fear that the spell would break, and Harry would stop.

Harry muttered something, and then suddenly the hand that was teasing his balls looked shiny, and Draco realized that he had just managed a wandless lubrication spell. Draco’s cock jumped under his fingers, apparently very interested in this development. As if Harry wasn’t driving Draco mad enough; now he was doing wandless sex magic?

Draco gripped his cock, reveling in the sensation flooding through his stomach, a sort of bottoming-out, like those moments when the beat dropped in the club. He began to stroke himself, matching his pace to Harry’s, his mouth watering at the sight of Harry, sighing and panting and arching up into his hand. He stared at the muscles of Harry’s stomach, as they tightened and relaxed as he moved.

Harry moved his left leg, bringing his foot closer to his arse, so his knee was up in the air. And then, holy fuck, he was sliding his lubed fingers down, below his balls, down to his arse. Draco desperately wanted to scream “Lumos!” so that he could see better, so that he could see _everything_ , but this was plenty, because he could definitely see Harry’s finger disappearing into his arse. And then he definitely heard the deep, low, almost growl that sounded from his pink lips.

Draco had to squeeze his eyes shut and stop the movement of his fist along his cock to keep from crying out at the sight of it. His entire body was practically vibrating with desire, it felt like he was on fire, flames licking every inch of his skin.

He managed to open his eyes again and Harry had advanced to two fingers, and was shifting up and down the loveseat, sort of fucking himself on them and oh god, it was the most beautiful, most glorious thing Draco had ever seen in his whole fucking life.

Harry made another one of those little growly noises and threw his head back, and Draco stared at it all, tried to let it all wash over him, tried to memorize it. His pulse was roaring in his ears, every slow drag of his fist making him shiver.

Harry was working himself faster now, and moving further up and down the couch and onto his fingers, and the breathy noises were coming quicker, almost continually.

Draco picked up his pace, too, wanting nothing more than to come in tandem with Harry, wanting it so badly he could taste it. Then, without meaning to, he heard himself let out a low, quiet groan.

He stilled, and watched, dizzy, as Harry’s eyes opened, shining impossibly bright in the moonlit room. They met his head-on, and he stared as Harry registered what was happening, what Draco was doing, _had_ been doing, and then…

And then he didn’t stop. He didn’t stop, he just kept at it, kept moving his hand firmly along his cock, kept fucking himself on his own fingers, kept panting, louder now, and shaking. But now he was doing it with his eyes locked on Draco’s, and his eyes were hot and terrible and full of want.

Draco began to move again, faster and harder, let himself feel all of it, pleasure trilling up and down his spine, as he stared into Harry’s green eyes. He let out a whine, anguished and needy, and saw Harry shudder.

Heat was pooling in his stomach, coiling tight, and he was shivering and tingling everywhere. “God,” he breathed. “Oh my god.”

Harry was arching up, practically off the couch, his hand moving fast and jerky now. Then, suddenly, he was coming in silvery ribbons, painting himself with it and crying out helplessly, and then Draco was coming hard, and it was one of the most perfect things he’d ever felt, violent and hot and sweet. Some of his spunk hit his chin and he loved the way it felt, loved that Harry saw, that Harry was feeling exactly the same way, that they’d done this together.

The room was entirely quiet after except for their breathing, and Draco stared into Harry’s eyes, and saw that they were breathing together, too, that they were entirely in sync, every inch of them.

Draco felt a vague sense of dread deep in his stomach, because what if this ruined everything, what if this was too much? But then Harry muttered a cleaning spell, and Draco felt all his come disappear from his skin. Harry pulled up his pants quickly, and then curled up onto his side, his green eyes moving back to Draco’s. He didn’t look angry, or upset. He looked…amazed. His expression was one of wonderment, and peace, and affection. Love, maybe. Whatever the fuck that was.

Draco’s pants hadn’t moved, so he simply rolled so that he was facing Harry, and looked into his endlessly bright eyes, and they stayed that way, without speaking, until Draco fell back to sleep.


	22. Back to Reality

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry and Draco return to Hogwarts, only to find that something is amiss.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: reference to self-harm, possible suicide attempt in this and the next several chapters

We tried to wash our hands of all of this  
We never talk of our lacking relationships  
And how we're guilt stricken sobbing with our  
Heads on the floor  
We fell through the ice when we tried not to  
Slip, we'd say

Can't be held responsible  
'Cause she was touching her face  
And I won't be held responsible  
She fell in love in the first place

_**The Freshman** _ **/ The Verve Pipe**

* * *

“Draco Lucius Malfoy!” cried a voice.

Harry’s eyes shot open and he was met with the sight of a very angry Mrs. Malfoy. She was back in her usual clothes – today, a powder blue Jackie-O style sheath dress – and standing over Draco’s sleeping form.

Draco stirred and then sat upright.

“Andromeda and Teddy will be here in fifteen minutes, and you’re sprawled out like a _vagrant_ and the room looks like a _wastebin_ (the only things Harry could see were his jeans and Draco’s trousers and the two glasses of scotch they’d never finished) and you positively _reek_ of liquor. And you’ve made poor Harry sleep on a _sofa_.”

Harry watched as Draco’s mouth twitched, and he studiously kept his eyes away from Harry’s.

“We’ll go freshen up, then,” Draco said, making quick work of the room, disappearing the crystal glasses and sending the bottle of scotch back over to the little liquor cabinet.

“Yes, well, you’d better make haste,” Mrs. Malfoy said. She turned to Harry, and Harry clutched the little blanket closer. He hoped to god he’d not missed any of the copious amounts of spunk that had been flung around the room the night before. “I apologize for my son’s lack of hospitality, Harry. I do hope you weren’t too uncomfortable.”

“Er, no. Slept very well,” he said, feeling his cheeks get hot. Oh Merlin, it probably _smelled_ like sex in here.

“Glad to hear. Now, hurry up, you two,” she said, striding out of the room.

Harry and Draco finally looked at one another and burst out laughing. “I knew it was going to end with your mum seeing me in my pants,” Harry said.

“I completely forgot to set an alarm. Passed out too fast. I’m sorry,” Draco managed.

The thing that had happened sat between them, shimmering and dreamlike, and Harry wondered how it had happened, how it had been real.

“Harry…” Draco said, biting his lip. He looked so unlike himself, then, all the swagger and arrogance gone suddenly, as though it had been banished along with the crystal. He looked…terrified. Harry hated it, and wanted to make sure it went away and never, ever came back. He wanted nothing more than to kiss Draco, to show him how he felt, and what he wanted, to kiss him until that look was completely gone, but he couldn’t, not yet.

Harry stepped towards him and put a hand on his cheek, let his thumb swipe over the bit of stubble there. “I’m going to talk to her,” Harry said. “Today.”

He saw Draco’s Adam’s apple bob in his throat as he swallowed. “You are?” His gray eyes searched Harry’s.

“Yeah,” Harry said.

Draco closed his eyes and nodded, and Harry, unable to help himself, pulled hihm close and kissed his forehead. He felt, suddenly, like crying, although he didn’t know why, exactly. He thought that maybe it was the delicacy of this thing, how it felt fragile as spun glass, and so, so precious.

Draco let himself be held for a moment, before pushing Harry away and clearing his throat. “We have about two minutes until Mother comes back in here and hexes us.”

“Right,” said Harry, and they ran upstairs to make themselves presentable.

It was wonderful to see Andromeda and Teddy again. It had only been about two and a half months since he’d seen Teddy, but he’d changed so much in that time. It was amazing how quickly he grew, how different he was from visit to visit.

After lunch, which was served, quite formally, in the dining room, Harry and Draco were sprawled out on the floor in one of the sitting rooms (not _the_ room, though, the one that Harry would associate with moonlight and scotch and Draco’s eyes for the rest of his life). They were letting Teddy crawl back and forth between them, his hair changing lightning-fast, black, then white-blonde, then black again, until he finally settled on black and blonde stripes, which made Harry and Draco laugh until their sides hurt. Teddy squealed excitedly in response, and tried to eat Harry’s nose.

Mrs. Malfoy and Andromeda were sitting in a pair of armchairs, talking. Harry hadn’t ever really processed the fact that they were sisters. He’d known it, of course, but it wasn’t something he’d ever thought about, and they were so different in some respects that it was difficult to even picture them together. But now, watching them, it made sense. They had some of the same mannerisms, the same proper, soft way of speaking. They tilted their heads the same way when listening, crossed their legs at the ankles when they sat, and even brought their teacups to their mouths in a strikingly similar fashion. Their laughter was identical, and when it was just the two of them, they spoke in a strangely abbreviated way, like they were skipping half the words because they didn’t need to include them, because the other would understand. It was (and this was a word he had never expected to associate with Mrs. Malfoy) rather cute.

The afternoon flew by, and too soon, it was time to go back to Hogwarts. Andromeda hugged Harry fiercely, and Teddy gave him several very drooly kisses, and Mrs. Malfoy took his hands and kissed both his cheeks again.

Then he was taking Draco’s hand, and they twisted nauseatingly and were standing back at the gates of the school. Harry loved Hogwarts, had loved it since the first moment he’d seen it from across the lake, mysterious and beautiful, like something out of myth. But just now, he didn’t want to be there. He didn’t want to have this talk with Ginny (was rather dreading it). He didn’t want the presence of everyone else to ruin whatever it was that had grown between him and Draco over the last couple of days. He had no desire at all, really, to see any of them, not even Ron and Hermione. He only wanted to be back at the townhouse, or maybe strolling anonymous muggle streets with Draco. He sighed.

“What’s wrong?” Draco asked, a little crease appearing between his eyebrows.

“Don’t want to be back here. Don’t want the weekend to be over.”

Draco looked relieved. He smiled. “Oh,” he said. “Me too.”

Something intense passed between them, and Harry felt his stomach clench at memory of the night before, of how Draco had looked, his eyes silvery in the semi-darkness, his expression hungry and fierce and breathtaking. Harry felt like everything was different in the aftermath of that, not just _them_ , but _him_ , like last night had hollowed him out and filled him back up with something new, like he was fundamentally changed in ways he couldn’t explain, but could feel, nonetheless.

A house elf cranked open the gates. “Thank you, Beeker,” Draco said, and Harry felt another soft wave of affection wash over him at the notion that Draco knew the names of the house elves at school.

They walked along the bridge to the school in silence, both of them lost in their thoughts. Too soon, they were standing in front of the passageway to the Eighth-Year Common Room. “Come to my room tonight,” Harry said. “When you’re ready for bed. I’ll be back by then.”

Draco’s cheeks flushed. “You’re sure? It might be a long conversation.”

“No, I’m sure,” Harry said.

Draco nodded, and then said the password (“lavender lilies”; it was always something to do with the color purple).

The first thing Harry noticed when they walked through was that the Common Room was strangely empty. It was a Sunday, in late afternoon, which usually meant that everyone would be hunched over textbooks and parchment that they’d neglected over the weekend, furiously trying to make up for lost time. But there was no one – literally, no one – here. Harry wondered briefly if they might be at supper, but no, it was a bit too early for supper.

“This is odd,” said Draco. “Where is everyone?”

“I was just thinking the same thing,” Harry said. “I dunno.”

They headed for the dormitories. Draco’s room was in the opposite direction as Harry’s. “Good luck,” Draco said, as they parted. “I’m sorry, for what it’s worth.”

Harry shook his head. “You’re not.”

Draco opened his mouth to protest, but Harry cut him off. “Which is fine, because I’m not either. I don’t want anyone to be hurt, but I’m not sorry.”

Draco considered him a moment, and then nodded, briskly, before setting off to his room.

Harry took a deep breath and went to his, yanking the door open and expecting it to be empty, or to contain Ernie, or maybe Seamus.

What he was not prepared for was the sight of over a dozen people, all crowded inside. The atmosphere was heavy, somber.

“Oh, thank fuck you’re back,” Pansy said, leaping to her feet. “Where’s Draco?”

“Erm, his room?” Harry said, and Pansy rushed past him and out the door.

“What is it?” Harry asked, looking from face to face. Ernie was there with Daphne, the two of them holding hands. Seamus had his head on Dean’s lap and Dean was stroking his hair. Hermione and Ron were standing near the windows, looking exhausted. Millie was standing next to Hermione, and she looked like she’d been crying.

All of it was frightening, and Harry found his palms were sweaty. “What?”

“It’s Blaise,” Millie said. “He, um. He, well, Ron –”

“He didn’t get up this morning, you know, early like he usually does,” Ron said, not quite looking Harry in the eye. “I thought maybe he had someone in there, in bed with him, so I left it alone, but after breakfast, I still hadn’t seen him, so I checked. Tried talking to him, first, but didn’t hear anything. Then I looked in his curtains. And, ah. He hadn’t woken up.”

“What do you mean, hadn’t woken up?” Harry said, his hands trembling now. He felt like his knees might buckle.

“We think it was maybe Dreamless Sleep?” said Millie. “Like maybe a lot? We’re not sure. He was unresponsive. Ron and Hermione called for Madam Pomfrey and she flooed him over to Mungo’s. He’s there now, still. We’re not allowed to see him yet, and we haven’t heard anything. So we don’t know…we don’t know.”

“But we’re assuming he’s stable,” Hermione said. “Otherwise they’d have told us.”

“Maybe,” whispered Daphne. “Who the hell knows.” She swiped at her face.

“Oh my god,” Harry managed, squeezing onto his bed next to Mandy, because he needed to sit. “Oh my god.”

“Yeah,” said Mandy, putting an arm around Harry and squeezing.

It hit Harry then, that Draco was going to be hearing this, probably right at this moment, from Pansy. Oh god, poor Draco. Harry leapt up and practically ran out of the room, down the hall, and flung Draco’s door open.

The room was empty, Draco’s suitcase flung on his bed and opened, but still full. Pansy’s room, thought Harry, and raced down the girls’ corridor and barged in. Only it, too, was empty.

He went back to the Common Room, and then to Theo’s room, and then to Greg’s room, but although Theo and Greg were both in the latter, Draco wasn’t.

Not knowing what else to do, Harry trudged back to his own room.

Everyone mostly stayed in Harry’s room for the remainder of the evening, which was good and bad. Good, because if left to his own devices, Harry might’ve fallen into a deep, dark hole, and bad, because he desperately wanted to be alone. He found, though, that with everyone there, it was still possible to be sort of alone. When people didn’t feel like talking, they didn’t, and nobody asked why they were being so quiet.

More people drifted in and out, and some people went down to supper, although more simply didn’t feel like it. Those that went promised to bring some food back up.

Someone rapped on the door at around seven-thirty. “Come in,” yelled Harry, and almost fell over when the the Headmistress stepped into his room. She had never, in all her years as their Head of House in the Gryffindor tower, ventured anywhere near the boys’ dorms. “Good evening,” she said, glancing around the room. “I came to give you news. I know how worried you all are.” She cleared her throat and pursed her lips before speaking. “Mr. Zabini is stable, but not yet awake. His healers believe he will awaken, though, hopefully in the next day or so. That is all the information I have at this point, but I will keep you updated as I hear more. I’d be happy to answer any of your questions privately, or talk if you need to talk. My door is always open.”

“Thank you, Headmistress,” Harry said.

She nodded and then slipped out of the room.

Draco and Pansy weren’t in classes the next day. McGonagall didn’t give them any updates, either. Harry tried not to fall apart, but it was hard. He didn’t want to lose anyone, not _after_ the war for Merlin’s sake, even someone who’d pissed him off the way Blaise had. And he was so worried for Draco. He knew Blaise was important to him, and he knew, better than anyone, how fragile Draco still was. He was also worried, selfishly, about what this would mean for Draco and Harry, whether it would change things. And even though it was unrelated, even though what had happened with Blaise wasn’t connected to the violence and horror of the war, it felt, somehow, like more of the same, and it was filling Harry with a sort of low-level sense of dread that made him unable to eat more than a few bites at meals.

He settled into bed that night, heart racing, gut churning, and thought about the night he had ahead of him, all those empty hours of loneliness and fear. After a few moments of staring at the canopy, during which he felt like he might sick up all over his bed, he grabbed his pillow and made his way to the girls’ corridor and knocked on Hermione’s door

“Come in,” he heard Hermione say softly.

Ron was sitting with Hermione on her bed, talking quietly, and Pavarti was asleep, curtains closed. Pansy still hadn’t returned. “Can I stay in here, with you guys?” Harry asked, feeling like a complete tosser. But the urge to not be alone, to be with the people who had seen him through the worst moments of his life, was too overwhelming for him to really care.

“Come ‘ere,” said Ron, scooting over, and patting the bed between him and Hermione.

Harry found himself, despite everything, laughing. “I’m not going to try to sleep in there with the two of you. It’s a really small bed.”

Hermione giggled.

“I know that, ya git,” said Ron. “Just get over here.”

Harry went and sat, and then was very forcefully hugged on both sides. He sighed into Hermione’s bushy hair. “This is so fucked up,” he said.

“It’s horrible,” agreed Ron.

“Draco hasn’t come back,” Harry said.

“Pansy hasn’t either,” said Hermione, her voice muffled against Harry’s shoulder.

Harry took a deep breath. “You think they’re okay?”

“I don’t know,” said Hermione. “I hope so.”

They stayed that way for a stupidly long time, until Harry finally pulled away and collapsed onto Pansy’s empty bed, which sat across from Hermione’s.

Harry watched as Ron and Hermione settled into Hermione’s bed like they were an old married couple already, like pieces of a puzzle fitting together. Like he had always settled in with Draco, when they were sleeping together. “Ron,” he whispered.

“Yeah, mate,” Ron said, looking over.

“Don’t hate me, but I have to break up with Gin.”

Ron sighed. “Right, well. Fuck.”

Hermione’s head snapped up. “Why, Harry?”

Ron looked over at her and then back at Harry. “Malfoy?” Harry was shocked, really, because Ron was usually the last to figure stuff like this out. But then, Ron knew Harry better than almost anyone else in the world.

Harry gulped. “Yeah.” He winced, hoping that whatever Ron did, he wouldn’t throw Harry out tonight. Not when he really needed to be in here. He’d take a punch to the face over spending the whole night alone.

Ron nodded. “Thought so. You should tell her now. While Malfoy’s gone.”

“Yeah,” Harry said again. He was quiet for a moment as he worked up the courage to ask. “Are you angry?”

“I’m not _happy_ ,” Ron hissed. “She’s my fucking sister, Harry, I don’t want her hurt.” He took a deep breath. “But I knew as soon as you started up again with her that it wasn’t going to work. I’m not an idiot.”

“No, you’re not,” Harry said. “For what it’s worth, I’m sorry.”

“Just don’t be a dick about it, yeah?” Ron said. “Don’t get together with Malfoy immediately. At least not where she can see it.”

Harry didn’t want to agree to that; he half wanted to say that Ginny had waited _two weeks_ after dumping him to hook up with Dean, and they had been together for nearly six months that time. But he supposed this was a kindness he could stand to offer. “Alright. I can do that.”

“Good,” said Ron.

“I like you and Malfoy together,” Hermione offered, earning a glare from Ron. She glared back. “What? I do! They’re good together.”

“We’ve never been _together_ ,” Harry protested.

Ron rolled his eyes. “And you think I’m the clueless one.”

They chattered for a while longer, talking about nothing, ignoring all the dark and heavy things surrounding them, just like they’d done all those months in the Forest of Dean. And at some point, Harry managed to slip off into sleep, passing out mid-sentence as he was mumbling something in response to Hermione’s question.

He was asleep, so he didn’t see Hermione curling up into Ron’s side and touching his face, whispering, “Thank you. He needed to hear that from you,” or Ron saying, “He’s my best mate. She’s just my sister. Plus, she did act like a slag last time, with that Dean shite.”

“Ronald!” Hermione cried.

“Sorry, 'Mione,” he replied, kissing her cheek. “She did, though.”


	23. Real Boy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Draco and Pansy wait for Blaise to wake up

Has our conscience shown?  
Has the sweet breeze blown?  
Has all kindness gone?  
Hope still lingers on

I drink myself of new-found pity  
Sitting alone in New York City  
And I don't know why

Are we listening?  
Hymns of offering  
Have we eyes to see?  
Love is gathering

_**The World I Know** _ **/ Collective Soul**

* * *

Draco hated St. Mungo’s. He hated the smells, and he hated the generic pictures on the walls, and he hated the shine of the waxed floors. He hated the sickly green of the Healer’s robes and the feeling of hopelessness that washed over him every time he entered the building.

It was one of the primary reasons he wanted to become a Healer: so that he didn’t have to feel hopeless in here. So that he could charge through the corridors knowing how to help, what to do, how to make it better.

He’d spent a week here after his father was attacked in Azkaban. Lucius had never woken up, hadn’t ever recovered. Draco had watched, helpless, as he’d succumbed slowly to his injuries, as whatever was left of his will to live dissolved into nothing. And after, Draco had vowed to become a Healer, so that he never had to feel like that again.

But he still wasn’t a Healer, he was still a stupid kid, and now it was Blaise instead of Lucius lying motionless in the small white bed. Mrs. Zabini was out of the country with Reginald, somewhere in Thailand, most likely, and they were having trouble reaching her. Draco’s mother was here in her stead, watching over Blaise like he was her own son, looking grieved and pale and heartsick. And of course Draco hated that. His mother had been through enough, for fuck’s sake.

Mrs. Zabini and Draco’s mother were not close – Draco knew that his mother had always privately looked down her nose at Mrs. Zabini’s frenetic, extravagant lifestyle. But the two women had known each other for a long time, and they’d watched their boys grow up alongside one another. And, given the flighty, selfish nature of Mrs. Zabini’s inner circle of friends, there was no one else to watch over Blaise. So, the job fell, quite naturally, to Draco’s mother.

Pansy and Draco had spent the last two nights at the townhouse, waking and appararating immediately to Mungo’s. They’d spend the day in the quiet room with Blaise, trying to read, trying to engage in a bit of weary conversation here and there, and mostly trying not to drown in their terror.

It helped, a bit, that Blaise looked healthy. There was none of the grayish pallor that Draco remembered his father taking on. Blaise didn’t smell like decay, as Lucius had. He still smelled like Blaise, like expensive cologne and aftershave. And he truly looked as though he were simply asleep.

The problem was that he wasn’t waking. He wasn’t stirring. He was absolutely, completely still.

The Healer assigned to him, Healer Thomas, was a man in his sixties with a thick head of gray hair and a brusque, competent manner. Draco appreciated that in a Healer. He didn’t want them to be his friend; he only wanted to be able to put his faith in them. Thomas seemed like a man Draco could trust to fix the problem. Thomas said that Dreamless Sleep overdoses were unfortunately quite common. Draco asked, sharply, why it wasn’t strictly regulated, if that were true, and Thomas said that it was difficult, because it was brewed not only by the corporate potions companies, but by independent potioneers and even by people in their homes.

At any rate, the amount of Dreamless Sleep that Blaise had consumed -- determined by Thomas in the initial diagnostic – was within the range of treatable overdoses, so he was hopeful. The main thing was that he had to keep Blaise’s heart and lungs functioning at their usual rates, had to make sure his vitals didn’t drop below certain measurements. So far they hadn’t.

“You cannot blame yourself for this,” Pansy said for the thousandth time.

“And why not?” Draco hissed across the bed. “It’s entirely my fault.”

“It’s not, Draco.”

They left it there, just like they had every other time. Of course Pansy had to say it wasn’t his fault. She was his friend; that was her job. But it was. He knew it was. He ought to have known, given the way Blaise had been with him the last time they’d talked. He’d seemed unhinged, especially for Blaise, for whom control was a form of art, the pursuit of a lifetime. Draco had known he wasn’t doing well, it was painfully obvious. But he’d thought…

He didn’t know what he’d thought. But he hadn’t thought it would lead to this. He’d hardly thought about it at all, honestly. From the moment Harry had taken his hand outside the gates of the school, Draco hadn’t spared a moment on Blaise. He’d been too consumed with Harry, with the happiness that was threatening to wreck him in its intensity.

That was the worst part, really -- that he’d been so happy while Blaise had been alone in his room downing an entire bottle of Dreamless Sleep. While Blaise had been contemplating his own demise, Draco had been dancing with Harry, lost in the feel of Harry’s hands and the sensation of being wanted and adored. While Blaise’s body had been shutting down, his pulse slowing to a dangerously slow rate, Draco had been staring at Harry, naked in the moonlight, his heart full to bursting.

At six on Tuesday evening, visiting hours ended just as they had the night before, and Draco and Pansy kissed Draco’s mother goodnight and apparated back to the townhouse. They had Dinky fix them cheese toasties and soup, and then slogged upstairs. Pansy slept in Draco’s bed again, which was nice, because the last thing he wanted was to be alone.

Then they woke up in the morning, dressed, and prepared to do it all again.

“He’s awake,” said his mother, greeting them in the hall outside of Blaise’s room. “He woke up and tried to speak. The Healers are checking him over now, running a few tests.”

“Oh, thank Merlin,” Draco breathed, leaning against the wall for support.

Pansy started crying.

It seemed like forever, but was probably twenty minutes or so, when two of the Healers left the room, and Healer Thomas waved them inside.

Blaise was sitting up against several pillows, looking puffy-eyed and exhausted. “Hi,” he croaked at them, and it sounded as though his vocal chords had been burnt.

Draco’s mother went and sat next to Blaise, taking his hand in hers and putting her other hand to his cheek, while Healer Thomas spoke softly to Draco and Pansy. “He’ll need to be here for another day or so while we monitor him, just in case. But it’s extremely rare for an overdose patient to slip back into the suspended state once they’ve awoken. I’d say he’s almost certainly in the clear now. But we’ll need to talk about where he’s going once he’s discharged. He’ll need to be watched around the clock for a while.”

Draco nodded. “My mother’s said she’ll take him in until his own returns from abroad.”

“Good. I’ll go over everything with her, then, before he’s discharged.”

Draco nodded, and watched as Blaise tried to smile up at Draco’s mother.

His mother had been at the hospital for three days and nights. She was exhausted. “Go home,” Draco said to her. “I’ll stay tonight.”

Pansy looked sharply at him. “What about me?” she said.

“You ought to go back to school,” he said.

She glared. “He’s my friend, too.”

He sighed. “I know. Well, either way, I’ll stay here for now. If he’s got to stay another night, you can be here then, Pans.”

“Fine,” she huffed. She and Draco’s mother kissed Blaise goodbye and left the room, leaving Blaise and Draco alone for the first time.

Draco stepped over to the beside and sat. He took Blaise’s hand.

“I’m an idiot,” Blaise said. “I know. You don’t have to say it.”

“Maybe I do have to say it, because you fucking _are_. How could you do this? Goddamnit.” Draco found himself in tears, even though it wasn’t supposed to be like this, he was supposed to be comforting Blaise, not falling apart.

Blaise sat up and pulled him in for a hug that seemed both familiar and strange, after a weekend of hugging Harry. “I’m sorry, Draco.”

“No, _I’m_ sorry, it’s all my fault, if I hadn’t –”

Blaise pulled away and regarded him. “Are you fucking kidding me? You’re actually making this all about _you_? Merlin, I’ve always known you were a self-centered arsehole, but this really takes the cake.”

Draco blinked at him. “But –”

“But nothing. You think I did this because you dumped me for Harry Potter? I’ll admit, that was quite shitty of you, but that’s not why this happened.”

Draco gulped. “Then why? Why would you?”

Blaise sighed, and suddenly looked very tired again. Almost fragile, and Blaise never looked fragile. “I don’t know, really. Because it was too much? It’s been too much for so long, and I just…”

He looked over to the wall, blinking away his own tears.“You ever feel like nothing will ever be right again? Like you’ll never feel like you used to? Like you’ll never be happy ever again, no matter what happens?”

“Yes. I used to feel like that all the time,” Draco said.

“I know. I mean, I knew that, somehow. Why do you think I snuck into your bed that first time?”

“Because you were hard up?” Draco said, grinning. “Your right hand was getting tired?”

“No, you cockhead. I came over there because I thought you probably felt the same way. I’d seen how miserable you were those first few weeks. And it seemed like…maybe we could help each other feel better. Dunno if that makes sense.”

“A bit, yeah,” Draco said. “And you know…it worked.”

“I did, didn’t it,” Blaise replied.

“So is it going to be different now? Or do you still feel the same?” Draco asked. What he really wanted to ask was _will you do this again_ , but of course he didn’t.

“I don’t know,” Blaise said. “I’m…I’m very relieved that it didn’t work, to tell you the truth. But, I don’t know.”

“You’re a brilliant person, Blaise. The world needs you. I need you.”

Blaise smiled. “You don’t. Not anymore.”

“I –”

“It’s okay. Let me be happy for you, okay? For fuck’s sake, Draco. Let me be happy for you.”

“I still do need you, though. I need you around. I need you in my life, as my friend.”

“But I’m an awful friend,” Blaise said, looking anguished. “I’m an awful person. Even back in fifth year, look what sorts of things I did. I was a terrible coward during the war, and then I’ve spent this year using and hurting the people I care about most…” He trailed off.

“First of all,” Draco said. “Fifth year wasn’t your fault. You got sucked into something that was already a disaster. That was on Cassie and Vance, not you. They should never have involved you, and they fucked you up pretty badly. That was _them_. And during the war…my god. At least you didn’t actively serve evil. You did the best you could –”

“I could’ve saved Lavender Brown and I didn’t.”

“What?” asked Draco, confused and thrown.

“I was there, when she died. I saw her fall, and I could have cushioned it. I saw Grayback running at her, and I could have stopped him. He was paying zero attention to me, I could’ve stupefied him. Easily. And then, everyone was still fighting, when she was brought back into the Great Hall, so no one was tending to her, but I wasn’t fighting, of course. Because I never did. So I could’ve tried to help her. Could've tried to heal her wounds. But I didn’t. I didn’t even say anything to her, or hold her hand. I just stood back and watched her die.”

“But. You didn’t even know her, did you?” Draco said, horrified, but trying not to show it. He wasn’t offended by what Blaise was saying – Merlin knew he understood why he hadn’t acted to help Lavender, with all the Death Eaters that were there, watching – but he could only imagine how it had impacted Blaise.

“No. I knew _of_ her, though. She was a person, she was part of our year. And I did nothing. Absolutely nothing. I’m selfish, Draco. I’m so selfish I make myself sick. I’m not normal, I don’t do normal things –”

“You’re completely normal, Blaise. You’ve been thrown into some horrible shite, just like the rest of us. You’ve been scared, and hurt, and forced to make decisions you should never have had to make. You wanted to stay alive during the war. There is _nothing_ wrong with that. Maybe you could’ve helped Lavender, but maybe you couldn’t have. And maybe trying to help her would’ve just ended up getting you killed.”

“Maybe I should’ve died, then,” Blaise whispered. “Maybe it would’ve been better.”

“Don’t say that,” Draco rasped, trying not to cry again.

“And then I spit on Lavender’s grave, didn’t I, fucking with her best friend’s sister the way I did. Parvati hates me now, and I don’t blame her. And Parvati was the only one who could talk to me about Lavender, you know, about what she’d been like…”

“Blaise. Stop. Stop it.” Draco took his hand. ”Look, you’re not perfect. None of us are perfect. We’ve all done awful things, even Potter.” He thought about it for a moment. “Okay, maybe not Hermione, but she’s the only one.”

Blaise smiled.

“And you _did_ help me, this year. Even though it got a bit messed up, you helped me when I needed it the most. And you helped all of us get to know one another. You’ve been, like, the gateway Slytherin for all the other houses. People see that you’re not so bad, and then they give the rest of us a chance. If it weren’t for you, we’d probably still be universally shunned.”

Blaise laughed. “Not true.”

“ _True_. You charmed the arses off of those bloody Ravenclaws. And Hufflepuffs – it’s clear that Hannah Abbott fancies you. You helped all of us Slytherins, using just your wits, your charm, and your devastating good looks.”

“Fuck off, Malfoy,” he said, still grinning.

“Look,” Draco said, getting serious again. “I can’t do this without you. I literally can’t. When I thought you were…when I didn’t know if you were going to pull out of this, my thought was that I would never be happy again. That nothing would ever be okay again. I _need_ you in my life.”

“You ought to hate me.”

“I’d never hate you. I love you.”

Blaise let out a breath. “You love Potter, not me.”

“I can love him and still love you.”

“I’m sorry,” Blaise said, his voice cracking. “I’m so sorry, Draco.”

Draco pulled him close. “Don’t be sorry. Just be okay.”

He felt Blaise nod against his shoulder.


	24. I Miss You

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Harry talks to Ginny, and Harry and the other Eighth Years go on holiday

To see you when I wake up, is a gift I didn't think could be real  
To know that you feel the same, as I do, is a three-fold utopian dream  
You do something to me  
That I can't explain  
So would I be out of line, If I said  
I miss you.  
I see your picture, I smell your skin on, the empty pillow next to mine  
You have only been gone ten days, but already I am wasting away  
I know I'll see you again  
Whether far or soon  
But I need you to know, that I care  
And I miss you

 ** _I Miss You_** **/ Incubus**

* * *

Harry hadn’t talked to Ginny at all on Sunday night or Monday. The Eighth Years were sticking close together, quiet and worried, and the rest of the school was mostly leaving them alone. He’d seen Ginny shooting him meaningful looks at supper on Monday, but he’d ignored them. He just hadn’t had the energy to respond.

But this needed to happen. He couldn’t keep putting it off.

After supper on Tuesday, he walked toward the Gryffindor table and tapped her on the shoulder. “Gin,” he said.

Her warm brown eyes met his and she leapt up and wrapped him in a hug, and he breathed in her vanilla-Burrow scent. “Oh, Harry,” she said. “Are you alright? It’s so awful, about Zabini.”

He pulled away. “Yeah, of course, I’m fine. We’re all worried,” he replied, then cleared his throat. “Waiting for news.”

She nodded.

“Hey, so, would you be able to meet in the Room of Requirement tonight?” he asked.

“Yeah,” she said, smiling. “I’d love to.”

She probably thought…oh, bugger. She probably thought he wanted to fuck around. He looked down at his shoes. “To talk, I mean,” he said quietly.

“Oh,” she replied, her smile disappearing, a worried expression replacing it. “Oh, right.”

“At, like, eight o’clock?” he asked.

She shook her head. “No. No, if it’s…we should do it now, right after supper. I don’t want to wait two more hours to hear what you have to say.”

Oh, Merlin. She was trembling slightly, all of a sudden, and her face was getting a little blotchy. “Yeah, now’s fine,” he said. He took her hand, and she squeezed his tightly, and they walked in silence to the quiet seventh-floor corridors.

Harry walked by the spot on the wall three times, and then opened the door. There was a replica of the family room at the Burrow inside. “I think that was me,” said Ginny, smiling ruefully. “I was thinking I wanted to go home.”

They went in and sat down on the worn couch together. It even smelled like the Burrow inside, like Molly’s cooking, and like detergent and furniture polish and cinnamon.

Harry looked over at Ginny, and suddenly she seemed very small where she sat, sort of curled in on herself. He remembered the first time he’d met her, how she’d been afraid to even say hello to him, how red-faced she’d been, how young. He remembered in the aftermath of the war, how he’d sagged against her and she’d held him and stroked his hair. He remembered the night she first told him she loved him, that she’d _always_ loved him.

She tucked a strand of shining hair behind her ear and swiped a nervous tongue over her pink lips. “Just say it, Harry,” she said.

“I can’t do this anymore,” he said, looking right into her soft brown eyes.

She nodded, almost to herself. “Why?”

“I don’t…Gin, I love you, and I’ll always love you. But I’m not _in_ love with you. It just isn’t there anymore, not for me.”

“It certainly seemed _there_ when you were letting me suck your dick, Harry,” she shot back, eyes hardening.

Oof, he deserved that, didn’t he. “I didn’t say I wasn’t attracted to you anymore. You’re still beautiful. I still wanted you. Obviously, I did. And I thought maybe it would come back, you know. I thought those other feelings would come back. But…they haven’t.”

Harry watched, gut churning, as a tear trickled down her face. She swiped it away, looking angry. “And there’s somebody else, too, isn’t there?” she asked.

“That’s _not_ why –”

“Parkinson?” she asked. “I always see her flirting with you.”

He started. “What? No. Pansy’s just my friend, Gin.”

“Then who?”

He considered his options. One, lie. He didn’t like to lie but he did like to spare people’s feelings. Two, say nothing. She’d keep asking, though. She was stubborn as hell. Three, admit it. She was going to find out anyway, he supposed. “I have feelings for Draco,” he said.

Ginny stared at him, her eyes wide. “Oh, Merlin,” Ginny said. “I should’ve known. You two are always together, and then the weekend…Did you cheat on me, Harry? This weekend?”

He hesitated. “Not technically. But no, I didn’t do right by you, either. And I’m sorry. I should’ve…honestly, I never should’ve gotten back together with you. I knew even then that I felt something for Draco, and I shouldn’t have let anything happen with you.”

She sighed, slumping a bit. “I was the one who chased after you. During spin-the-bottle. If I hadn’t…”

“I could’ve said no, Gin. I could’ve, and I didn’t. I let this happen, and it hurt you, and I’m sorry.”

“I’m sorry, too,” she said, looking over at him. “I’m sorry I fucked it up in the first place. I’m sorry the war made everything so hard, I’m sorry I pushed you to get back together…I’m just _sorry_ , Harry. I regret –” she choked up here. “I regret so much of what I did.”

He put an arm around her and she curled up against him, her weight against his side achingly familiar. “If I hadn’t broken up with you before,” she asked, softly, “would we still be together, do you think? Would you still love me?”

“I dunno,” he said. “Maybe. But I think…I think you’ll be happier with someone else.”

“Harry –”

“No, I mean it. You need someone who’s made of stronger stuff than I am. Someone as confident as you. Someone who can stand on his own two feet. Even if we made it through this year, eventually you’d have gotten tired of my shit. You realize that, don’t you? On some level?”

She sat back and looked at him, her eyes wide and sincere. “But you’re my _person_ , Harry. I’ve loved you forever. I’ve wanted you forever.”

“The things we want when we’re ten years old aren’t necessarily the best things for us,” he said, and she tried to smile in return.

“But it was so _beautiful_. The idea that it would’ve always been us, that we’d have never loved anyone else. Wasn’t it so lovely to think about?”

“Yeah, it was,” he said, meaning it. “It’s a lovely story. But it’s not real. It was never real. You’ve fallen for other people, and so have I.”

She put her face in her hands and sat quietly for a while, and Harry looked at her, feeling like his body was full of lead. Merlin, this hurt. Even though it shouldn’t, even though he knew it was the right thing for both of them, it still hurt.

He understood everything she was saying. He had certainly believed in their story for a long time, considered it the perfect ending to everything he’d gone through. It hurt to let go of it completely, to give it up for good. He was closing a door forever, he knew it, and it was always difficult to close a door, to make a choice.

Finally, she straightened and looked at him. “I want to get to know him,” she said.

“What?” he asked, frowning. “What d’you mean?”

“Malfoy. If he’s to be your boyfriend, I want to get to know him. I don’t want him avoiding me forever, because then you’ll be avoiding me, too. You and I are still going to be friends after this, Harry. We _are_ , and I don’t care if people think being friends with your ex is impossible. You and I are going to be friends. And so…I’ll need to be friends with him, too.”

“Alright,” Harry said. “He might be…well, he’s prickly when he’s feeling insecure. And he _will_ be feeling insecure around you.”

“I think I might already know the way to his heart,” Ginny said, smiling a little mischievously. “I ran into him at the underground track, and we talked a little.”

This was news to Harry. “And neither one of you bothered to mention it to me?” he cried.

“It wasn’t anything major. I just talked to him about running and lifting for a bit. Anyway, I think I might know how to win him over.”

“And? Do tell. Because I don’t think I fully understand it yet.”

“I think I just need to give him shite. Tease him. He seems to do well with that. Better than if I tried to be all sweet.”

Harry had to laugh. “That’s not inaccurate,” he said. “It probably would be easier for him.”

She nodded, and then went back to being quiet. Finally, she spoke again. “Alright, then. I’ll let you take your leave of me,” she said with a tired smile. “I’m going to stay here for a little while.”

He got off the couch and pulled Ginny up by the hand, and then he hugged her tight, and she clung to him, her head buried in his chest.

When she pulled away, they were both teary-eyed. “Alright, shoo, Harry,” she said, waving him off. “Let me cry over you in peace.”

He wiped his cheeks and nodded, and then left Ginny alone by the sofa.

He closed the door behind him and sat down in the corridor, against the wall. He thought about Ginny, and all she’d meant to him, and he let himself have a good cry, too, and let himself mourn the loss of the shadowy future he used to see when he was with her, the happy home he’d thought to build with her someday, full of love and children with red hair. It hadn’t been real -- it had only been a dream -- but it had been a lovely one, and it hurt to let it go. It hurt to say goodbye to her.

These things were never easy, even if they were right.

On Wednesday, McGonagall called the Eighth Years to her office and told them all that Blaise was awake and doing well. He would go home in a day or two. Draco and Pansy were still gone and Harry had no idea when they'd return.

Later that day, Harry and Hermione met with four different members of the Board and talked to them about SASS. Two of them (Karina Vogel and Melanie Cuthbert, both former Ravenclaws) agreed to vote yes to the proposal. One (Shepherd Farley, a former Gryffindor) said he would vote no and vowed to convince the rest of the Board to vote no. The last one (Zebadiah Greengrass, a distant cousin of Daphne’s and former Slytherin) said he would consider the matter, and hinted that perhaps he might be convinced to vote yes if the new school-wide colors were green and silver.

On Thursday, Harry received an owl at breakfast, his name written on the front of the envelope in Draco’s perfect, precise penmanship. He ripped it open and read it with only minimally trembling hands.

_Dear Harry,_

_I am at St. Mungo’s today as I have been every day since I last saw you. Blaise is awake. He is doing well, all things considered. His mother is out of the country, so once he is discharged from the hospital, he will be staying at the townhouse until she comes home._

_I know that Sunday is the day we are supposed to fly out for our class trip, but I do not anticipate making the flight. Mother needs help with Blaise, and I want to be there for Blaise, too. I may try to join up with the group later in the week if his mother returns. In the meantime, I expect you to take notes for me in all of our classes in that abhorrent chicken scrawl you call handwriting, and to keep Hermione in line._

_I miss you._

_Draco_

Harry set it down, feeling conflicted. Draco was missing the class trip. Draco, the reason Harry had been so excited about it, was not going to be there. Harry wasn’t going to get to see Florida and New York City with Draco. He’d be alone. Well, not alone, but. Sort of alone.

And Draco would be at the townhouse with Blaise. Harry found himself feeling embarrassingly territorial about the whole thing, especially regarding Mrs. Malfoy – would she like Blaise more than Harry? Of course she would! Blaise was, like, a perfect gentleman and Harry was a dolt. He also got mad thinking about them hanging out in _the_ sitting room.

Blaise would be right where Harry had been last weekend, and Draco would be nursing Blaise back to health like a sexy, blonde Florence Nightingale. Harry tried to remind himself that Blaise had literally attempted suicide, and that he had no right to be jealous or upset. He had no right to feel anything but worried for Blaise, and sad for Blaise, and worried for Draco.

He _tried_ not to feel resentful. But it was hard.

There was the last line in the note, though, that sparked hope in his chest, pure and hot. _I miss you_. It couldn’t be that bad, could it, if Draco missed him?

Thursday afternoon, Harry and Hermione met with four more Board members. They finished up the day with one more yes vote (William Pew, former Gryffindor), one more no vote (Serendipita Fyce, former Slytherin), and two more maybes (Fitz Dravall, former Slytherin, and Naomi Brandt, former Hufflepuff).

Thursday night, Harry read the letter again ten more times, then just stared at the last line, and then tucked it under his pillow and stayed up all night staring at the canopy of his bed. When the sun came up, he sighed. At least he’d be tired tonight.

Friday, Harry sat in his room after classes and pulled out a piece of parchment. He was shit at writing letters, absolute shit. But he would try.

_Dear Draco,_

_I am glad Blaise is awake and doing okay. All the Eighth Years send him their love and best wishes and can’t wait to see him again. Millie says she’s going to bake him a cake when he gets back, but Daphne says Millie hasn’t ever baked anything in her life, so Blaise probably shouldn’t eat it, just in case. Theo says Blaise owes him five Galleons for ‘the thing’ (I have no idea). Hannah Abbott says to tell him that she read_ The 1943 Gringotts Heist _, and thanks for lending it to her, and it is her new favorite book._

_I am enclosing a separate envelope for Blaise with notes from Padma and Parvati. I haven’t read them, I promise. (But, honestly, they’ve both been crying a lot, so I think they’re probably nice notes)._

_It’s boring here without you. I miss you so much it’s stupid._

_Yours, Harry_

He sent it out with one of the school owls and got ready for his last round of meetings with Board members. They ended up with two more no votes (Gustavus Schroudt, a former Ravenclaw, and Hugh Dibble, a former Gryffindor), one more yes (Octavia Blatt, former Hufflepuff, although it had already been a yes, so this was nothing new), and one more maybe (Farrah Montmore, a former Slytherin). Harry decided Gryffindors were stubborn bastards, and Slytherins never gave a straight answer. They had only four locked-in yes votes, and four definite no’s. They had four unknowns, and at least two of those, if not three of them, had to vote yes. Three of the four unknowns were Slytherins.

Harry had just written Draco that day, but he pulled out parchment and wrote him another quick note.

_Dear Draco,_

_Sorry to bother you again, but can you please work your Slytherin magic? We’ve got four Slytherins on the Board (more than any other house, of course, you strings-pulling bastards), and none of them are planning to vote yes. Three of them are maybes, and Serendipita Fyce said she is a no, although I think there might be wiggle room there. Can you reach out before the Board meeting? See if you can talk some sense into them?_

_I still miss you. It sucks._

_Yours, Harry_

Sunday, twenty-six Eighth Year Hogwarts students shuffled through the luggage lines at Heathrow, most of them wielding magicked passports, and boarded a flight to Miami, Florida. Only two of them had ever been on an airplane before, and as a group, they were fucking _terrified_.

Harry sat between Mandy and Pansy, who had just returned to school on Friday evening, and they gripped each other’s hands during takeoff. The plane rattled like it was going to break down right there on the runway, but then all of a sudden, they were going up, up, up, and the three of them stared out the window in amazement at the world below. ‘This is even better than a flying car,” Harry whispered. 

Miami, Florida, was a fun place. Harry had eaten tacos before, sure, but never tacos like _this_ , with handmade tortillas that were stuffed with carnitas and fresh pico de gallo and guacamole. Holy fuck, they were so good. Harry found a taco stand the first day they were there that was only a couple of blocks away from their hotel, and he ate there every single day after, for lunch.

Also, there were mojitos. Mojitos were so delicious, and it was hard to know that you were getting hammered when you were drinking them until it was too late.

They all ate at a Cuban restaurant right off the beach that first night, and Harry ordered something called Pernil, which was pork shoulder, and it was served with some spicy roasted potatoes, and when he was done, he wanted to die of happiness. It was all so amazing.

Pansy, having heard from Draco that Harry might need some fashion assistance, helped him pick out a couple of linen shirts and well-fitted shorts the next day that he could wear out to the beach and to clubs at night. 

It was incredible, dancing to pounding EDM and shaking his arse to Latin beats with all his friends the next three nights. His heart soared as he watched Ron try (unsuccessfully, mostly) to salsa with Hermione. He felt full of goodwill and joy as he watched Neville move in on a pretty muggle girl, as he spied Ernie and Daphne snogging on the dancefloor, and as Pansy danced all over Harry, making him laugh and also get a little bit hard, at club called Hammer.

He loved seeing them all smiling and relaxed on the beach during the day, lounging and getting tan lines, laughing and running at the waves. He loved that they all staggered home together in the wee hours of the morning, rowdy and stupid and spinning. They had needed this, and he was so happy Pansy had suggested going to Florida, because between the sun and the mojitos and the dancing, it was just the thing for a group of fucked up, war-ravaged eighteen-year-olds (whose passports said they were twenty-one). It was perfect. Almost perfect. Almost, because Draco wasn’t there.

The night before they were to take an underground wizard flash train (something unique to America, apparently, that they used instead of floos) to New York City, Harry was lying awake talking to Pansy. There were about six of them to a room, so there was absolutely no privacy, but nobody cared.

“Maybe he’ll come to New York. He was more interested in New York anyway. Blaise’s mother might be back by now,” Pansy said, looking at him with her big, dark eyes.

“Yeah, maybe,” Harry said, trying not to hope. If he hoped, he might be disappointed. Best to not.

He felt a little sad then, because Draco would’ve loved it here. He probably would’ve gotten a terrible sunburn, and bitched non-stop about it, but he would’ve loved the energy and the music and the mojitos. Someday maybe Harry would bring him back to Miami, and take him to that Cuban restaurant right off of the beach.


	25. There You Are

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Draco makes his way to the Big Apple

Trusting desire, starting to learn  
Walking through fire without a burn  
Clinging a shoulder a leap begins  
Stinging and older, asleep on pins  
So here we go

**_I Should Tell You_ / RENT (Original Broadway Cast Recording)**

* * *

There was no way that Draco was going to get on one of those death-trap aeroplanes by himself. No way in hell. The prospect of doing that with all his classmates was terrifying enough. He certainly wasn’t going _alone_.

Thankfully, the Malfoy name still had some influence, despite everything. His mother owled a Ministry official who had been a friend of the family back before the war, who still felt guilty over Lucius’s conviction and death, and asked him to pull some strings.

That was how Draco found himself at the Ministry on Friday, taking an International Portkey to Quebec City, Canada. From there, he would have to take some sort of weird underground wizard train system to New York City.

Draco slipped into Mr. Fulmuth’s office in the Department of Magical Transportation with his suitcase. Mr. Fulmuth handed him a coat hanger, and Draco felt the not-unfamiliar (but always unpleasant) sensation of being yanked by the bellybutton. He surfaced in the Magical Embassy in Quebec City, where a friend of Mr. Fulmuth’s greeted him and showed him to the basement, where he was to catch the train.

It was rather unnerving to see the train suddenly appear at the station, blowing it’s horn loudly, without warning. Not to mention, the train was hideous, decked out in red, white, and blue stars and stripes with a giant eagle painted on the caboose. Draco felt his lip curling. Ugh, Americans, imposing their gauche nationalism on their poor Canadian brethren.

He was one of only a few people at the stop, but the train was already mostly full. “Next stop, Montreal!” boomed an oddly accented voice over the loudspeaker. Draco braced himself against a pole like all the other standing passengers were doing, and then he felt the train jerk forward, and begin to hurtle through the underground tunnel at an unimaginable speed. Draco had to force himself not to gag, but then ten seconds later, they appeared at another station.

This happened twice more, once in Boston, Massachusetts, and once in Providence, Rhode Island, before they reached New York City. The station here was fifty times bigger than the one in Quebec City, and bustling, full of witches and wizards, presumably, although the vast majority of them did not wear robes. Nearly all were wearing muggle clothing, and a lot of it was depressingly casual muggle clothing.

He approached the nearest counter where a witch in a Department of Magical Transportation uniform was seated underneath a sign that read, “HELP DESK”.

“Hello, Miss,” Draco said as he approached. She was likely in her young twenties, and cute, with full cheeks and curly blonde hair, and she lit up at the sight of him.

“Oh, aren’t you adorable! Where are you from, London?” She had a very pronounced accent and her rhythm of speech could best be described as rapid gunfire.

“Not originally, no,” Draco said. “Wiltshire.”

She looked confused. “Like, England, though?”

“Oh. Yes,” he said.

She smiled again, like Wiltshire was acceptable in that case. “Hey, Jess! Come here!” she shrieked to the witch in the next booth. A brunette poked her head out.

“What?” Jess said, chewing gum.

“Come here!” said his blonde girl again. Draco looked back and forth between them nervously. The brunette girl came sashaying over, looking irritated until she spied Draco.

“Oh, cute,” Jess said, eying him up.

He wasn’t one to get embarrassed very easily, but what the actual hell?

“Oh my god, wait until you listen to him, though,” the blonde said. She turned back to Draco. “Say something!”

“What would you like me to say?”

Both girls squealed.

“Say something else!” said Jess.

“I think I’m turning rather red,” he said.

More squealing. “Okay,” said Jess, tapping her finger to her mouth. “Say… _Would you like a spot of tea_.”

“Right,” Draco said, taking a deep breath. “Would you like a spot of tea?” He was really trying to be a good sport, because unfortunately, he did need these idiots' help, but he was about five seconds away from losing it.

“Jessica Sanchez, get the hell back over to your booth! I don’t want to tell you again!” called a gruff voice from across the room.

“Oh shit,” Jess said, blowing a bubble with her gum, which blondie popped with a finger. Jess hustled back over to her booth, then stuck her head out the window. “Tell him to come to Broomstick!” she hissed, then turned to a man waiting there impatiently.

Draco turned back to blondie. “So, now that you've forced me to make an arsehole of myself, might you be able to do your job and help me?” he asked with a tight smile.

“Course!” she said, beaming at him. “What do you need?”

“I need to figure out how to get to a hotel. It’s called the Lumos House?”

She frowned. “Hm, must be a smaller one. Let me see…” And then she proceeded to look at one of those internet machines, clicking and clacking and then finally nodding to herself. Draco couldn’t believe that they had muggle technology in a wizard train station – it seemed akin to watching a dog ride around on a bicycle. “Ah, it’s a _hostel_ , not a hotel. Good location though.”

“Glad to hear it,” Draco said. “What's a hostel?”

She shrugged. “You know, a place for backpackers and kids to stay. Cheap. At least it’s a wizarding one, though. They’re usually not bad.”

Cheap. Pah. Draco mentally cursed Weasley and everyone else on a budget. The beds better be acceptably soft or he was going to find out how to get to The Chrysalis, where his mother and father always stayed. “Ah,” he said.

“So,” she said, pulling out a map. “It’s actually pretty close. Walkable.” She drew lines along some of the streets, and circled a little dot. “Right here. Just about four blocks.”

“Wonderful,” he said. He looked at her nametag, which said, ‘ASK ME, I’m Tina!’ “Thank you, Tina.”

“So polite! I love you!” Draco thought that was a little forward, but oh well. “So,” she said, leaning closer. “Jess and I work Thursday, Friday and Saturday nights at a club called Broomstick. It’s a wizard place, hidden behind this really big muggle club. It’s really fun, if you’re bored tonight or tomorrow or whatever.”

Draco did think a club sounded fun, but maybe not one that contained Tina and Jess. Unless…maybe all Americans were like this? “Where is it? Is it far from the hotel…er, hostel?”

“Not very." She waggled her hand at him and he passed her the map back and she circled another spot. “Right there," she said, grinning up at him. “Come see us and we can hook you up with free drinks.”

“Well, thank you. I appreciate it.”

“Oh, of course, darling!” she said, in a terrible impression of a British accent. Then she winked.

He walked away shaking his head. Surely not all Americans were this chipper.

They were not. Once he got up to ground level and began walking, he found that a lot of them were actually quite rude and grouchy, and even pushy. At one point he glanced down at the map for ten seconds and some arsehole shoved him with his shoulder and snarled, “Hey, watch where you’re going!”

By the time Draco got to the hotel… _hostel_ …he was ready to punch someone. The lobby was rather obnoxious, full of blindingly bright maps of the United States (Merlin, they were so obsessed with their country) and city skylines. He went up to the front desk, where a wizard in very ostentatious, old-fashioned robes was sitting and putting together a puzzle. ‘Help you?” the man said, not looking up.

“My friends are expecting me. Draco Malfoy, I’m with Hermione Granger and company.”

“Ah, the Brits. Can I see ID?”

Draco handed him his spelled passport, and the man wrote down some information in a little book and then handed him a key. “They’re split up between Rooms 5, 6, and 7, but supposedly Room 5 is the one with the free bed. Although, I dunno. Last night it seemed like they all passed out in the wrong rooms. None of my business, though, ya know.”

“Erm, thank you. So, this is a key to Room 5?”

“Yup,” said the man.

Draco felt suddenly nervous to see everyone, to see Harry. He hurried down the hall, heart in his throat. He unlocked the door and popped in and….

The room was empty. And a fucking mess, suitcases and duffel bags leaking out over every available surface. And had four sets of bunk beds in it. What sort of hell was this, sharing a room with seven other people? It was worse than _school_ , for Merlin’s sake. There was a note in Pansy’s curly script, spelled to stick to the mirror that hung against one wall. Draco pulled it down.

_Darling,_

_We’ve left for the theatre. Try to meet up with us there if you can. Here’s your ticket. You can apparate from the lobby to one of the coat rooms in the Nederlander Theatre. Show starts at 6:00. PS – Everyone swears you should dress CASUALLY for this event. I don’t understand, because is it not the theatre? But who knows, Americans are odd._

_XOXO,_

_Parky_

_PPS – NO ONE knows you’re coming, and that includes your favorite lover and mine. I wanted it to be a surprise. So, just so you know, jaws will drop when you walk in. I figured you’d appreciate that._

Draco grinned. Fucking Pansy. He hadn’t called her Parky since they were in nappies, but she still signed all her letters and notes to him that way.

And fuck yes, he was happy that this was a surprise. That made it ten thousand times more delicious. He was going to give Harry a bloody heart attack. He’d have to give Pansy one of those free drinks from Jess and Tina as a thank you.

He glanced at his watch and saw, to his shock and horror, that it was quarter ‘til six. He was wearing a light blue jumper and gray trousers, but Pansy said casual, so he quickly threw on a pair of jeans, because muggles fucking loved jeans, and then he cast a cleaning charm over himself to freshen up a bit. Then he ran out into the lobby and asked the man at the desk the coordinates for the Nederlander Theatre.

He surfaced in a literal coat room, and the witch there looked at his ticket and told him to follow her, and led him up some stairs. He hoped they had a private box, but no such luck.

The witch pointed him towards the seats, and he saw, much to his delight, that they were actually decent seats, the first and second rows of the central section of the mezzanine. His friends took up the first row and almost the entire second one. And there, at the end of the first row, was an empty seat next to Harry.

The lights dimmed, and he saw Pansy, who was in the seat on the other side of Harry, look around, her face anxious. She spotted Draco and grinned, then faced front once more.

Draco waited another minute or two before stepping towards the front, watching Harry turn to Pansy and say something quietly, smiling. Draco felt like he was holding his breath, like everything, like the rest of his life, was waiting there in front of him. Just before the lights dimmed the rest of the way, he slid into the empty seat.

Harry turned towards him, looking confused, and it took a second, for it to register, and then he broke out into a smile that nearly cracked Draco’s heart in two.

“Hi,” Draco whispered.

“Hello,” said Harry. “Nice of you to join us.”

“Well, I couldn’t very well miss…what the fuck are we seeing?”

“RENT, Draco. It’s only the biggest hit Broadway’s ever seen.”

“Oh, well. So _sorry_ I’m not up to snuff on shitty American theatre.”

Harry had to bite his lip to keep from laughing.

“Keep it down, Potter. I’m trying to watch the show,” Draco said, turning towards the stage.

“Prat,” Harry said.

“Git,” whispered Draco, and took his hand.


	26. Out Tonight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Hogwarts crew goes to Broomstick. There is the slightest bit of sexual tension between Draco and Harry.

We don't need any money  
I always get in for free  
You can get in too  
If you get in with me

Let's go out tonight  
I have to go out tonight  
You wanna play? Let's run away  
We won't be back before it's New Years Day  
Take me out tonight

_**Out Tonight** _ **/ RENT**

* * *

“ _No day but today!”_

The final lyrics rang out over the stunned, moved audience as the lights went down and the curtain closed. A moment’s silence and then everyone leapt to their feet, and thundering applause swept through the theatre.

Harry let go of Draco’s hand for the first time since he’d taken it so that he could clap and cheer and blink back the tears that were threatening to spill. Because Draco would _definitely_ make fun of him for crying during a musical.

He glanced over at Draco thinking he ought to head him off at the pass and say, maybe, ‘ha ha ha, I know, yuk it up, Potter’s crying again.’ But when he looked over at Draco, he found himself suddenly torn between bursting out laughing and hugging the idiot.

Because Draco was a _wreck_. His face was all splotchy and his eyes were red and he had the sleeve of his jumper pulled over the hand that had not been holding Harry’s, and was furiously scrubbing at his face with it, although it wasn’t helping too much because tears were still actively pouring over his cheeks. And, also, he was scowling, looking so pissed off that it would’ve been frightening had he not been crying all over himself.

He looked sideways at Harry. “Not a word, Potter,” he ground out.

Harry bit down a grin. “No, of course not. I got a bit overwhelmed there at the end myself.”

Draco’s scowl eased up a bit and his lip wobbled. “I thought Mimi was going to _die_ ,” he managed.

Harry nodded and decided right then and there that he was disgustingly, pathetically, completely in love with Draco Malfoy. “Aw. I know,” he said, pulling Draco in for a hug.

Thankfully, it was pandemonium around them because the cast had just come back out for the curtain call. After a moment, Draco pulled away and appeared to collect himself, and then everybody was practically running out of the theatre like it was on fire.

He’d taken Draco’s hand again after the hug, and, as they walked through the vast lobby, he was just holding it. Just holding it, in front of everyone, and wasn’t that a revelation? That he could, and he was, and Draco was letting him?

“Is…is Harry holding Malfoy’s hand?” Harry heard Parvati whisper behind them.

“Yes, I am!” Harry turned around and called back to her. He then had the distinct pleasure of seeing Draco blush.

“Har- _ry_ ,” Draco scolded quietly, but he was smiling.

“Oh,” Parvati said with a grin. “Nice.”

Outside, on the darkened street, they approached a pizza vendor who looked wide-eyed at the massive group of them for a moment before taking their money and handing them enormous slices in napkins that they folded in half and shoved into their mouths, because that was what Lonely Planet said to do. Harry had read the whole thing cover-to-cover and considered himself a bit of an expert on New York City.

They talked over what to do next, which was not an easy conversation to have with, now that you added Draco, twenty-seven people. Some people wanted to find a nice pub to sit down in, others wanted to go out dancing, and a few wanted to go back to the hostel. Harry secretly wanted to take Draco back to Lumos House and throw him onto one of the beds, but he supposed he would go with whatever the group wanted to do.

Draco was telling Hermione about a club called Broomstick he’d heard about from some American witches. “When?” asked Harry, incredulously. “When on earth did you have time to chat it up with American witches? Didn’t you just get here?”

Draco smirked at him. “I’m irresistible, Potter. Witches love me. Incidentally, they said they could get us free drinks. Although I might have failed to mention that there are more than two dozen of us.”

After Draco'd spoken the magic words – free drinks -- everyone suddenly seemed to agree that clubbing might be okay.

They hurried back to Lumos House to gussy themselves up. Half the girls wanted to shower, so it was taking forever. Harry sat on the floor with Ernie, Seamus, Neville, and Theo playing what was, apparently, Theo’s favorite game, Three Man. So far as Harry could tell, there was literally no point to this game besides drinking, but it was still sort of fun. They were drinking rum and cokes out of the plastic hostel cups, and they were small, so refills had to be poured quite frequently. Harry suspected that more rum and less coke was being used each time.

Draco wasn’t playing with them because Draco was huddled up with Pansy and Parvati, agonizing over what to wear. Harry had on a t-shirt and the jeans he’d bought with Draco, and he figured that was good enough.

Finally, when Harry was reeling a bit from the rum and cokes, Draco and Pansy tromped back into the room and announced that everyone was ready to go. Harry couldn’t stop staring at Draco, who had chosen to put on the sheer shirt and black leather jacket. And as though he didn’t look delicious enough, Pansy had decided to line his eyes in black, which just…really put the whole thing over the top. Even Seamus, who seemed to hardly know anyone besides Dean existed these days, was staring at him open-mouthed. “Has Draco always been that, erm. Has he always been like that?” Seamus asked.

“Yup,” Harry said, feeling strangely proud. It was stupid, getting all puffed up because his maybe-in-the-future-boyfriend was hot as hell, but. Harry’d never claimed not to be stupid.

Broomstick was hidden behind a _massive_ muggle club called Hijinks. Harry thought it might be interesting to try that place out, too, although Broomstick was pretty fun. There were shot witches flying around on brooms in slutty approximations of Quidditch gear that barely covered their arses. And the shot witches were all very attractive, much to the delight of many in their group, who wanted to do lots of shots all of a sudden.

Broomstick’s vibe was not artsy and edgy like the club in London had been, but Harry thought that was probably a good thing. This place was playing popular muggle dance songs, and the crowd was very young, with no one appearing to be much older than twenty-five. Everyone seemed half-pissed and rowdy.

Two of the shot witches knew Draco, and were flying over on their brooms to dole out little cups of boozy jello, followed by shots of Jager. They didn’t ask him for money, but Draco gave them a very, very big tip and introduced them around.

The witches were both cute, one of them sweet-faced with curly blonde hair and a devastating body, the other small and petite with shining dark hair and caramel skin. They were also aggressively American, from their accents to their gregariousness. The blonde took an immediate shine to Michael Corner while the brunette flirted openly with Theo, who seemed both confused and flattered.

“You’re not going to refuse to dance with me again, are you Harry?” murmured a voice in his ear. Harry felt a little thrill shoot down his spine and turned to look at Draco.

“Dunno,” Harry said, leaning towards him and skimming his hand along the front of the sheer shirt, making Draco shiver a little. “You might have to ply me with free shots first.”

Draco laughed and handed him a shot of Jager. “Here, have mine,” he said. “I’m going to get out there while you stand here keeping the wall company.”

“Hey –” Harry said, but Draco was already striding away, grabbing Pansy’s and Hermione’s hands and dragging them out to the dancefloor. Well. Harry’d very much enjoyed watching Draco dance last time. He supposed he could do it again for a while.

He downed his shot and ambled over to Ron, who was gazing adoringly at a shot witch's arse as she leaned over a booth to hand out drinks. “Ronald _Weasley_ , how dare you?” Harry said.

Ron turned to Harry and grinned. “I’m in love, Harry, not _blind_ , for fuck’s sake.”

“Fair,” Harry said.

“Here!” cried the blonde shot girl, pulling her broom to a stop between them and handing out two more shots of Jager.

Harry reached into his pocket. “Oh, no,” the witch said, putting up a hand. “Draco’s given us plenty. It’s pretty much open bar for you guys tonight,” she said, giggling.

“Oh, well, thank you very much,” Harry said, as Ron gaped at her (admittedly) impressive cleavage. Harry elbowed Ron.

“Oh, right, yes. Thank you for the, er, drinks,” Ron said.

“Oh, Salem, your accents!” the witch exclaimed. “I could listen to you boys talk forever! I mean, holy shit,” She fanned herself.

“Your accent’s not too shabby, either,” said Ron, looking emboldened. “And your…erm…hair is quite nice.”

She giggled and fluffed it. “Oh, hush,” she said, winking, before she flitted away.

“My god, Harry,” Ron said. “I love America.”

“Behave,” said Harry.

Harry was reeling in light and sound and laughter, drunker than he’d been since the first night of mojitos. A group of American witches had pulled Harry and Ron and Theo and some of the other boys out onto the dance floor, which was so packed that Harry didn’t really have to worry about looking like an idiot because he could hardly move. And besides, one very pretty witch with spiraled brown hair, wearing a magenta tube top, was grinding her arse against Harry’s crotch, a development that he couldn’t entirely hate.

He was scanning the room for Draco, though, over and over, but it was so crowded that he couldn’t find him. He’d forget, then, for a while, and return to the more immediate things surrounding him – the music, the shots, the girls with way too much skin showing and the boys who’d ripped off their shirts altogether. Then he’d remember again, and look. Each time, he found himself getting a little more anxious. Where was Draco?

He was dancing with a witch in thigh-high boots and a tiny black skirt when a hand suddenly tapped him on the shoulder. “Potter,” said Pansy. “You’d better attend to your business,” she said.

“Attend…?” He said, and then glanced up to see Draco dancing with a shirtless wizard who had a zillion more muscles than Harry, and bright blue hair and a glow-stick necklace besides. The wizard’s hands were precariously close to Draco’s perfect arse. “Oh, hell no,” he muttered. “No way.”

Pansy chuckled. “Go get ‘im, tiger.”

Harry flung witches and wizards out of the way as he strode through the crowd. He ignored the other wizard entirely. “Hello,” he said, taking Draco’s hand and leaning in to kiss him on the mouth. Draco looked pleased.

The blue-haired, shirtless wizard looked at Harry and then back at Draco, shrugged, and wandered away.

“Now, look here, Harry, I’d finally found someone to dance with me,” Draco said, smiling playfully. He’d ditched his jacket and was just in the sheer shirt and he looked way too good to be real. Harry ran his hands along the front of the shirt, feeling Draco’s skin and the small nubs of his nipples underneath his palms. Draco inhaled sharply.

“You’re lucky he backed off, or I would have made a scene,” Harry said, kissing Draco once more, his arms snaking around Draco’s waist, his mouth lingering and slow this time.

“Oh? And what would you have done?” Draco asked, wrapping his arms around Harry’s neck.

“Dunno. Jelly-legs jinx? Stinging hex? Levicorpus? Cold-blooded murder?”

“Ooh, sexy. Keep talking dirty to me, Potter,” Draco said, his mouth only inches away from Harry’s.

“I should tell you what it made me want to do to _you_ ,” Harry said.

Draco’s eyes fluttered closed and Harry felt him roll his hips towards Harry’s, felt Draco’s cock press against his own, both of them heavy and thickened with desire. Holy shit. “Or you could show me,” Draco whispered.

“Yeah?” asked Harry, and his heart was beating hard and fast in his chest, his skin hyper-sensitive.

Draco leaned forward and kissed him deeply.

Harry felt something in his gut flare with an almost painful rush of desire as Draco’s tongue skated over his, as Draco’s hands skirted up into his hair. The minty shampoo smell enveloped him, and the taste of Draco’s mouth was sweet, and hot, and Harry wanted to devour him, to consume him, every bit, every inch. “Let’s get out of here,” he whispered into Draco’s mouth.

“Oh, thank fuck,” Draco said. “I thought you’d never ask.” His eyes were shining almost silver in the colorful lights of the club, obscenely beautiful against the smudgy black of eyeliner.

“I’m not sure I can walk normally,” Harry said, huffing out a laugh.

Then he felt Draco’s hand on the crotch of his jeans, pressing against his very hard cock. “Why ever not?” Draco said, smirking up at him from under silvery lashes.

“Fucking hell,” Harry groaned, pushing into Draco’s palm. You were only supposed to disapparate from a designated spot near the entry, there were five-thousand signs that said so, tacked up all over the inside of Broomstick. Harry did not give one single fuck what the signs said, though, and with a violent twist, Harry and Draco found themselves standing in the lobby of Lumos House, tangled up against each other with matching erections.

“Evening,” said the wizard behind the desk, not looking up from his puzzle.

“If you’re not in our room, naked, in five seconds, I’m going bend you over this poor man’s desk and take you right here,” Harry whispered into Draco’s ear.

Draco yanked Harry towards the room, his eyes feverish. When they made it around the corner, Draco stopped and accosted him, shoving him against the wall and kissing him hard.

“Five seconds is up,” Harry said, and banished Draco’s sheer shirt.

“Hey,” Draco said, frowning. “I liked that shirt.”

“I’ll buy you a new one. Now shut up and kiss me some more,” Harry said, smiling against him.

Draco pulled Harry’s t-shirt off and threw it against a wall and pushed him towards Room 5.

“You’re leaving that in the hall?” Harry couldn’t help but ask. Not that he minded; he was just curious.

“Yes, and I’m going to set it on fire tomorrow to get revenge for _my_ beautiful shirt, you arsehole,” Draco said, laughing, and then unlocked the door with slightly trembling fingers.

The room was empty, thank Merlin.

Harry cast a dozen privacy spells and locking charms at the door and pulled Draco back into his arms.


End file.
